


HORNBLOWER in the ANTIPODES

by Sarah44



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 18th Century, 19th Century, HMS Hotspur, M/M, Other, The Royal Navy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 147,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah44/pseuds/Sarah44
Summary: This is a re-upload of a story that a good friend of mine wrote a few years ago (original link: http://obvolute.com/hornblower/Hornblower_in_the_Antipodes.pdf) After persuading him for a long time, I was now able to persuade Antipodes to upload his fanfiction to other websites. I hope you all enjoy the story and have fun reading it.
Relationships: Horatio Hornblower/Edward Pellew
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

HORNBLOWER in the ANTIPODES  
Note:This is ‘slash’—it contains male/male sex scenes.Any resemblance to historical persons and charactersfrom the Hornblower books / TV series is entirelyintentional—but just for fun. Creative distortion ofhistorical events is also quite intentional!Many thanks to everyone who has aided, abettedand inspired me!

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’d best not suck in like that if you wish your uniform to fit.”  
With a grunt, Admiral Pellew relaxed enough for the tailor to measure his true girth. It was a fair point, he supposed, but nonetheless it irritated him, as everything had irritated him since reading the morning’s mail. One letter—one line—without even an initial to identify the sender had been the red flag before the bull: ‘Pitt is sending you to the South Pacific’. The moment Pellew read it he had flown into a fury that only harsh words his servants had abated at all. He had considered cancelling his appointment with the tailor and now, as the little bespectacled man fussed over him with his tape, he wished that he had: he was far too agitated to stand still—besides which, he might have no need of a new uniform at all if that letter told the truth. He had half a mind to hang up his hat instead.  
The tailor took the pencil from behind his ear and noted the measurements in his booklet. “Thank you for your patience, sir,” he said, deftly re-rolling his tape. “I have all I need.”  
“Good.” Pellew reached for his coat, forcing himself to add, gruffly, “thank you.”  
“If it suits you, sir, you may come back on Tuesday for a final fitting.” Pellew nodded, looking about for his hat.  
“But before you go—” Pellew huffed, “Yes?”  
“—I will show you the fabrics.” Undaunted, the tailor produced a selection of swatches. “Sailing to the East Indies, you say sir? Well, we have just the thing—this light-weight wool will do well in warmer climes—”  
“Perfect,” Pellew replied rather tersely. He had more important things on his mind than worsted wool and gaberdine.  
“And quality linens here, do you see, sir?” the tailor persevered, pressing the cloth into Pellew’s hand.  
“Yes, very nice, but I’m afraid I must be leaving.”  
“Of course,” said the tailor; his stubborn courtesy in the face of ill-temper only irritated his client further. He handed Pellew his hat. “We will see you on Tuesday, sir.”

“Thank you,” Pellew said through gritted teeth, then stepped out of the shop and into the waiting carriage.  
“Back to your rooms, sir?” the driver asked.  
Pellew took less than a second to make his decision. “No. Take me to Whitehall.”

Sir Evan Nepean, Secretary to the Lords Commissioners, received Pellew immediately upon his arrival. “Sir Edward,” he said, “what timing! Why, it is only fifteen minutes past that I despatched my letter to you.”  
Pellew frowned. “In that case, sir, I have not received it.”  
“Then is it happy coincidence to which we owe your appearance here?” “No sir.” Pellew clasped his hands behind his back and hesitated before  
replying. He wondered if he had already said too much by admitting that it was not the secretary’s letter that had brought him to the Admiralty, yet Pellew’s temperament was such that he would speak his mind. He had come with one intention—to protest the profound disservice of which his unnamed friend had been so good as to forewarn him—and he would do just that. “This morning I received notice of a certain change of plan regarding my command. I hear that I am to be despatched to the South Seas—is that correct?”  
Nepean seemed surprised but his expression soon settled into an  
unreadable smile. “Indeed, that was the effect of my letter—and that Lord Melville hopes to meet with you this afternoon. If it is convenient, I will tell him that you are ready to see him now.”  
“Thank you, sir,” Pellew said with a hard jaw; in that moment, he could think of nothing less agreeable than meeting with Melville, save perhaps meeting with Pitt himself, for one was the right hand of the other and he held both responsible for the treachery that had been concocted behind his back.  
Nepean could not have been unaware of the efforts Pellew had expended in securing the East Indies command and how incensed he must be at the change of plan, but nothing showed in his manner. He sent the message with a servant then poured wine for himself and Pellew. “I gather you are surprised by this development?”  
“In that I will be diverted some several thousand miles from where I had expected to be posted, yes.” Pellew looked sharply at his companion and had the satisfaction of seeing the normally impassive secretary raise his brows. “Yes, sir.” Pellew almost spat the word but, having won that small victory, he reserved his resentment for Lord Melville.

Pellew soon found himself in the First Lord’s office, a richly-decorated room with an expansive desk that served to keep visitors at a distance.  
“I congratulate you on your punctuality, Sir Edward,” Melville began, by way of a greeting. “That is a quality that will serve you well in the task we have for you.”

“Mm.” Pellew was poker-faced. “And what is that?”  
“A long voyage,” Melville replied with a thin smile that grated instantly on Pellew’s nerves. “The colonies,” he added. “New Holland, to be precise.”  
Pellew was silent. The news was still worse than he had expected. The notion that he, a Rear Admiral of the White, should be sent to a far-flung penal colony when he had expected to hoist his flag in one of the richest and most important regions of the empire was not only highly offensive but also most irregular.  
“Last month,” said Melville, “we received a letter from Governor King, in which he raised concerns regarding a serious threat to our interests in the continent—a French threat, to be precise.”  
“A serious threat, my lord?” Pellew could contain his incredulity no longer. It seemed inconceivable that Bonaparte should have any interest in so piddling a prize as a British penal colony. “With respect, Bonaparte has designs on Europe, on England—if you recall, it was only last month that Captain Hornblower destroyed an invasion fleet at anchor.” Pellew looked at Melville, who nodded. “What does Boney care for some half-drawn corner of the globe? With respect to the governor, it would be illogical to waste ships, men and resources on a colonial backwater—”  
“It may not be logical, Sir Edward, but we cannot assume that our enemies share our logic.”  
Again Melville smiled that repulsive smile; Pellew had to battle down the urge to strike him. At the very least, he wished he were dealing with one of the naval Lords, since he inevitably he found men of state less congenial than men of the sea.  
The First Lord continued, “I will arrange to have a copy of the governor’s letter prepared for you and you may study it at your leisure. But let me tell you now that it enlarges upon suspicions, raised in his earlier correspondence, relating to a French scientific visit to the continent two years ago.”  
Pellew nodded. It was clear from the way he said ‘scientific’ that the Melville did not believe science had been the true object of that visit.  
“We have no reason to doubt the accuracy of Governor King’s observations,” he went on. “Indeed, more recent intelligence from our agents in Paris has confirmed his fears. You may be disinclined to believe it, Sir Edward— you may not wish to believe it—but let me show you something that might help persuade you of Bonaparte’s very real interest in Terra Australis—or should I say Terre Napoléon?” As he spoke, he unfurled a chart showing the south-east coast of the continent, labelled TERRE NAPOLEON in letters prominent enough that Pellew, even without his glass, was able to read them. “I am sure you will agree that our enemy could not make his intentions more plain than by branding our territory with his name.” Melville looked almost smug. “That is a copy of a chart obtained by Governor King from the French expedition two years ago.” He

rolled it up, revealing another. “And this is one of a number of documents obtained from the Muséum in Paris this year. Do you recognise it?”  
All Pellew could do was squint unseeingly at the detailed drawing. The First Lord passed him his magnifier but, even so, he could discern nothing familiar.  
“Well, there’s no reason why you would,” said Melville. “It is a French chart of our colony at Port Jackson. It is more detailed even than some of our own charts.”  
Pellew looked up. “But what use is this to the French?” That was the question Melville was inviting him to ask.  
“What use, indeed. Once you are better acquainted with the colony, you will find that this chart indicates, with remarkable accuracy, the situation of colonial defences, roads, and prisons.”  
“A tribute, then, to French cartographers.” Pellew grimaced. He did not believe the French threat could possibly be serious enough to justify a flag officer’s involvement; he believed it was a sham, drummed up by Pitt and his adherents, to thwart his legitimate expectations in India.  
The First Lord ignored his remark. “The garrison and the magazine are clearly marked, as are the battery, here, and the smaller forts, here and here.” He pointed to their positions on the map. “You’ll also note the absence of any other artillery on the coast.” He met Pellew’s eyes. “Surely you see how such a chart could be enormously helpful to any enemy with designs on our colony.”  
“I do not doubt it, my lord.” Pellew cleared his throat, conscious that he should not let his scepticism run over into unconcealed impudence. “However, I do doubt that Bonaparte, with his present concerns, would prosecute such an interest.”  
Melville nodded slowly. “A month ago, I would have agreed with you. But let me show you something else—I take it, of course, that we can rely on your strictest confidence?”  
“As always, my lord.”  
“Good.” Melville reached into a drawer in his vast desk and withdrew a handwritten manuscript. “This document was also, shall we say, intercepted by our industrious agents in Paris.”  
“Most industrious, it would seem.” Pellew leaned forward to peer at the writing.  
“It is an original draft, by one François Péron, of a report to the Emperor, outlining—amongst other things—an invasion plan, with our colony at Port Jackson as its target.”  
“But sir!” Pellew’s brow puckered. “How can it be?”  
“I am as ill-equipped as you, Sir Edward, to understand our enemy’s depravity, but perhaps you will be less inclined now to doubt our intelligence.” He tapped the manuscript. “It is all here: this report suggests that French troops would require only an hour or two to overrun the settlement.”

“But a penal colony?” Pellew remained obstinate, though his obstinacy was in large part reluctance to go to New Holland and assess the threat himself. “Can we be sure that this is not another of Bonaparte’s ruses? To my knowledge, sir, Sydney Cove is little more than a dumping-ground for criminals, with a few soldiers—”  
“—I believe Banks will take issue with you on that point, when you meet with him—our colony has come a long way in fifteen years.”  
Pellew released a tense breath. “Nonetheless, my lord, Port Jackson is hardly Bombay or the Cape and, with respect, the notion of diverting resources from our interests in the Indies to defend a penal colony verges on the farcical—”  
Melville interrupted again to twist Pellew’s words against him. “It would indeed be a farce! Imagine how we would look, in the eyes of the world, should we prove unable to defend—as you put it—a penal colony. What hope would there be for the rest of our empire?” He fixed Pellew with a look, hoping to paper over dubious logic by pure intimidation. “Read the report: French officers in Government House, Irish rebels turned against our officers, an entire continent falling into enemy hands? We can’t let that happen, Sir Edward. To do so would be the sincerest indictment on England’s ability to defend her empire. It may interest you to learn that we have already received representations from the whalers and the East India Company.”  
Pellew raised one eyebrow. If that were true, then Governor King’s concerns might deserve more serious consideration. Nonetheless, he did not want to be the man to solve the problem; he imagined a young officer and a few hundred additional marines would be quite sufficient. It was time to touch upon the unspoken issue which surely underlay the change of plan: his posting to the East Indies. “Of course, my lord,” he replied, as diplomatically as possible, “but if trade is our concern, then I feel we must direct our attentions to the Indian Ocean, where our interests are most concentrated and where the French have already put their ambitions in action. I hardly need remind you of the significance of eastern commerce—”  
“Hardly. But I hardly need to remind you of the reports you will have  
received last week: the threat in the Indies is no longer so acute as we had feared, Sir Edward—nothing that your colleague Admiral Troubridge will be unable to manage.” Melville laughed scoffingly. “Admiral Linois and his petit fleet need be of no concern to you in prosecuting this more pressing matter.”  
Pellew was struck dumb. The name Troubridge explained, better than anything Melville had said, why he was being sent to New South Wales: Pitt and Melville had replaced him with a partisan. Only with the greatest effort was Pellew able to restrain himself from renouncing his flag on the spot and storming out of the First Lord’s office.  
Melville did not fail to notice Pellew’s fury but his gloat showed only in the slightest glimmer of a smile. “I presume that we may depend upon you, Sir Edward, to secure our interests.”

Pellew sighed silently. “You may, my lord.”  
“In which case, you may consider your official station extended considerably to the south.” Melville almost giggled as he said those words. Pellew knew perfectly well what they meant: his enemies had relieved him of the East Indies command in all but name. “You will sail as soon as practicable,” said the First Lord. “We’re giving you troops and three ships. Let Sir Evan know who you want for captains and he will settle the details.”  
Still stunned, all Pellew could do was nod.  
“I’m afraid,” said Melville, “that circumstances will require you to travel in conditions somewhat less comfortable than those to which you are accustomed: I can’t imagine giving you more than a frigate for a flagship; anything larger and you would be shooting sparrows with a twenty-four-pounder. I’m sure you understand.”  
Again Pellew nodded, though inside he was seething. It was not the size of the ship that bothered him—he had spent the best part of his life in frigates— it was the absolute hypocrisy of the thing. Melville had begun by touting French interests in New Holland as a threat to the security of Britain’s empire; now he was suggesting that the pernicious French could be routed with a single frigate and a handful of aged barques. Meanwhile, his hard-won command had been transformed into an antipodean farce—but his only alternative was to resign altogether. Not even as a midshipman had Pellew felt so impotent.  
“Good,” said Melville, obviously revelling in the admiral’s disappointment. “Your orders are to proceed to Port Jackson with all speed and take whatever steps you deem necessary to secure the colonies against any foreign threat. In the meantime, Sir Evan will provide you with copies of the French documents and arrange a meeting with Sir Joseph. He will be your best informer on colonial affairs.” Melville rose. “Good day, Sir Edward.”  
“My lord.” Pellew bowed and departed. He felt positively ill.

The following afternoon Pellew sat in his lodgings, working his way through the translation of Péron’s manuscript which he had received that morning. The plan was sketchy but its intent was clear. The zealous author advised the Emperor that less than two thousand French troops would require only a matter of hours to march on Sydney, emancipate Irish prisoners and sack the colony. Using the Irish—Pellew wondered whether the French might rethink that strategy following their latest failed attempt, but he had to admit that success was more likely in a penal colony stocked with Irish political prisoners.  
Péron went on to suggest that the entrance to Port Jackson was inadequately fortified and that its defences could be avoided at any rate by disembarking troops either at Botany Bay, where Cook and La Pérouse had landed, or on one of the sandy beaches along the coast between the Bay and Port Jackson.  
Obviously the colony could not hope to defend its entire extensive coastline against a concerted foreign attack. Moreover, Péron was of the opinion that the

cowardly and ill-disciplined New South Wales Corps would offer little resistance to a French invasion and Governor King seemed to confirm that opinion by his request for marine reinforcements.  
Pellew was left with the impression that, if they were to put their invasion plan into action, the French would have every chance of success. He did wonder how far his estimate of the plan was due to Péron’s blustering, even boastful manner, but the question foremost in his mind was whether the French would actually implement the plan. The draft was unpolished and incomplete; it commenced with a rather crude survey of the tactical situation in the Pacific, which said more about the author’s nationalist fervour than Bonaparte’s interests in New Holland. According to Péron, who claimed to base his views on conversations with British officers, the colony was a strategic base from which Britain hoped to spread her empire over the entire Pacific and threaten Spanish interests in South America. Pellew found it hard to credit the intentions imputed to his own country, let alone France.  
Nonetheless, it was clear that Péron had collected detailed intelligence as part of the scientific voyage. ‘On the right-hand point,’ he had written, ‘is the signal battery. With six canons, protected by a turf trench, it forms cross-fire with another battery on the opposite point, thus effectively defending this approach to the town and port’. One glance at the chart confirmed the accuracy of his statement and the reality of French interest in the colony. To Pellew, that was some comfort:  
whatever ulterior motives Melville had for sending him to New South Wales, there was at least a possibility of French aggression.  
Pellew was still perusing the report when he heard the door open and his servant enter behind him. “Hmm?” he said, without turning.  
“Captain Horatio Hornblower here to see you, sir.” “Ah.” The admiral set down his glass. “Send him in.”  
Pellew made a pretence of reading his papers until he heard the door open for a second time.  
“Sir?”  
Now he turned. “Captain Hornblower—I presume you received my letter?” He looked the young man up and down. He was perfectly groomed, despite just having arrived by coach; of course, he now wore his single epaulette pinned to his right shoulder.  
Hornblower nodded. “That is why I am here, sir.” “Why, you must have got the first coach.”  
“There was nothing to detain me in Portsmouth—since Hotspur received  
her new captain.” Hornblower did not need to say who that new captain was, since it was Pellew’s recommendation that had seen Walton, Tonnant’s second lieutenant, promoted to commander. But Pellew was not responsible for Hornblower’s removal from Hotspur. That decision had been made by his successor on the Portsmouth station.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” said Pellew. “A young captain earns his promotion only to have his ship taken from him—in recognition of his ability.” He shook his head. In fact, he could empathise with Hornblower more closely than he cared to: Hornblower had lost his ship and he had effectively lost his command. Still, Pellew’s mood had improved markedly for the younger man’s arrival. He rose from his desk. “So, a twenty-gun sloop is beneath your station, but it is perfectly within your dignity as a post-captain to have no ship at all.”  
“Apparently.” Hornblower sighed; he wondered why Pellew insisted on dwelling on all-too-familiar facts when they might have found happier matter to discuss. “I suppose the Admiralty does not share your estimate of my ability, sir.”  
“Rubbish. It is as I described: no-one could countenance putting a post- captain into a twenty-gun sloop, so Captain Hornblower, with all his immense talent, must wait for another ship to come along. Most unfortunate.”  
“Yes.” Hornblower turned to the window. The day outside was as glum as he felt.  
Pellew came a few steps closer. “Well, Hornblower, a ship has come along—should you wish it.” He hastened to add that caveat, for what he was about to offer was not the sort of command a young captain of Hornblower’s position and potential would normally want, nor would necessarily be advised to accept, but it was all he had to offer.  
Hornblower’s eyes widened at the prospect. “But of course—” he began, breaking off when he saw Pellew frowning. “What is it?”  
“Well, it’s not so much the ship as where she’s headed.” Hornblower blinked. “The East Indies?”  
“No,” Pellew said quickly. “Farther than that, I’m afraid.” He watched Hornblower’s expression change as his mind ran through the possibilities.  
“The Cape colony?” Hornblower guessed. Since war had resumed with France, everyone expected England to attempt to recover Cape Town from the Dutch.  
“No.” Pellew shook his head. “The ship is Hyacinth, forty guns. The  
destination is Port Jackson.”  
A puzzled line formed between Hornblower’s brows. “But Port Jackson is

in—”

“—New South Wales. Correct.”  
Hornblower was taken by surprise. He did not reply while he tried to

imagine what business might possibly send him to Port Jackson—escorting a new governor, perhaps, or a transport fleet, but neither task would require a heavy frigate. “Sir?”  
“I see you’re as confused as I was yesterday.” Hornblower nodded.  
Pellew cleared his throat. “Yesterday morning, before I wrote to you, I met with Lord Melville at the Admiralty. As you are perhaps aware, Melville is a follower of Pitt and Pitt is…” Pellew hesitated, since he had never burdened

Hornblower with the intricacies of his political predicament and he was unsure how deep he wanted to delve now. “Shall we say, not enamoured of myself.” Pellew pressed on; he had no wish to dwell on the details. “In short, there has been a change of plan, in consequence of which I am able to offer you this command.”  
Hornblower frowned; Pellew’s halting explanation tended to confuse rather than clarify the situation, though he could infer from his tone that the ‘change of plan’ had been contrary to his wishes. “You’re going to Port Jackson yourself?”  
Pellew grunted. “Yes.”  
Hornblower was shocked. He said nothing but his brow creased in a deep

frown.

“Or, as Lord Melville chose to phrase it, the ‘South Indies’.” Pellew’s skin

prickled as he said the words.  
Hornblower shook his head. “I don’t understand, sir. You were appointed to the East Indies command—how can they do this?”  
“Because they are the Lords Commissioners and I am a lowly Rear Admiral with the wrong friends in politics.”  
Hornblower’s frown deepened. He had never heard Pellew deride himself so and he began to suspect his feelings about the affair ran deeper than he had so far admitted. “But…” Hornblower was not sure what to say, since he had never before had cause to console an admiral on a contumelious twist in his career. “But to send you to the other side of the world on a mere pretext—”  
“No, Hornblower.” Pellew sighed. “I appreciate your loyalty but I must not allow my disappointment to colour your judgement.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “It appears the situation in the South Pacific is not purely a pretext: last month, the Admiralty received a letter from the governor in Sydney expressing his concerns about a French threat to the colony. Subsequent intelligence in Paris was able to confirm that threat and uncover a detailed chart of colonial defences, as well as a draft invasion plan, addressed to Bonaparte himself.” Pellew glanced at Hornblower and saw that he was still frowning. “I was as sceptical as yourself until I read the plan,” he went on, nodding at the manuscript on his desk. “I am satisfied that the author, at least, was contemplating an attack on the colony.”  
“And who was the author?”  
“A Monsieur Péron.” As usual, Pellew did not trouble himself to attempt the French pronunciation. “A naturalist, officially, who visited the colony with Captain Baudin’s scientific expedition two years ago.”  
Hornblower raised his eyebrows. “I have heard of the expedition, sir.” Pellew was surprised. “Hornblower, wherever do you hear these things?” The captain smiled slightly. “One of the ships—Le Naturaliste, I believe—  
was intercepted off Le Havre and detained in Portsmouth. She was there while  
Hotspur was in port.”

“Then it appears you already know more than I about this ‘scientific’ voyage.”  
“From what I heard, it was a scientific voyage, sir.”  
“Hmm. Well, it wasn’t for François Péron. I just read his report on colonial defences… Impudence and duplicity!” Pellew despised both qualities and perceived both in Péron. “He boasts that he made a good spy because he had the governor and everybody else convinced he was out collecting butterflies.” He looked at Hornblower but the young man was evidently lost in thought, his sharp mind seeking to unravel the situation before he even knew half the facts. “My task,” said Pellew, “is to ensure that this plan does not come to fruition.” He was still not sure how much he believed but, since he was asking Hornblower to join him, he was determined not to grumble.  
Hornblower pressed one knuckle to his lips. “But why attack a penal colony?”  
“The report suggests, for what it’s worth, that the colony is a strategic site and a threat to French interests in the Pacific—imperial and commercial, if one can distinguish the two.”  
“And is it?”  
“Well, damned if we’re going to let Boney make a base there!”  
“And are the French interested in New Holland in their own right?” “I can only assume so—why else expend resources sending an invasion  
force to the other side of the world?” Pellew paced back and forth. “I do not know the answer but, if Boney wants a share, I can’t see him being a peaceful cohabitant.”  
“No,” Hornblower said quietly.  
“I had hoped to tell you more, this afternoon—but, since you’re here, you may as well come with me.”  
Hornblower looked askance. “To Port Jackson, sir?”  
“No.” Pellew almost laughed at Hornblower’s earnest look. “No need to decide now—I’m giving you a choice, Hornblower.”  
“Understood, sir.”  
“Good. But I do have an appointment to keep.” “In that case, I can wait—”  
“No need. Come along—after all, you may find this meeting is just as relevant to yourself as it is to me.” Pellew retrieved his hat from the desk. “And afterwards you may be in a better position to decide whether or not you wish to accompany me to New Holland.”

“The British Museum?” said Hornblower, when they disembarked from Pellew’s carriage in the forecourt of Montagu House.  
“Yes—I thought I might spend the afternoon inspecting the antiquities.”  
Hornblower’s eyes showed that he found the idea agreeable but, before he could say so, he realised the admiral was joking.

“No,” Pellew explained, “the gentleman I am meeting suggested that we meet here: Sir Joseph Banks, an eminently intelligent and accomplished man, if perhaps a little eccentric.”  
“There is nothing eccentric about visiting museums,” Hornblower began to reply, but he fell silent when he saw an older gentleman gesturing to them from the portico.  
“Sir Edward,” Banks greeted them, “a pleasure.”  
“Sir Joseph,” Pellew nodded. “And may I introduce Captain Horatio Hornblower—I have invited him to join me on my voyage.”  
“A pleasure, Captain Hornblower.” Banks shook his hand. “Now, gentlemen, you must excuse me if I seem somewhat excitable, for I have just identified a fungus.”  
“Indeed?” said Hornblower.  
“Yes—I do believe I have discovered the cause of wheat rust.” Banks seemed rather chuffed.  
“My congratulations,” said Hornblower. Pellew, who had only a vague awareness that rust was a crop disease and still less interest, nodded in agreement.  
“Perhaps we might go inside?” Banks suggested, starting up the stairs.  
As he followed the others through the museum, Hornblower’s eyes wandered interestedly from Roman marbles to Egyptian sarcophagi and an entire gallery of Greek vases from the collection of Sir William Hamilton. Hornblower would have liked to explore the exhibits but, in order to keep up with Banks’ bustling pace, he could only stop for moments at a time, until Banks paused briefly to point out a group of Polynesian artefacts brought to England by Captain Cook.  
“From Tahiti,” he said, pointing to a strange doll made from leather, bark and feathers. “And New Zealand.” He indicated another cabinet housing carvings of bone and a dark green stone that Hornblower had not seen before. “A fascinating country—no land mammals besides the natives, would you believe it? Alas, the anthropological pieces from New Holland are not quite so eye- catching, but the natural history of the continent is quite unlike any other—one could spend several lifetimes studying it.”  
The two officers nodded, though Pellew, for his part, could think of nothing worse than spending one lifetime studying leaves and seed-pods, let alone several.  
“I could not say how many new species have been discovered already in so few years,” Banks went on. “We have already catalogued a number of species of commercial potential—ah, but that is what we have come to discuss, is it not?”  
“I believe so,” said Pellew. “That is, their Lordships suggested you might tell me something of the significance of the place.” Pellew hoped Banks’ enthusiasm for the continent ranged beyond his botanical collection.  
Banks nodded keenly. “Much overlooked, I can assure you.” “Then I will be most interested to hear.”

Banks led the two officers through a doorway and down another corridor. “I hear you are the first port of call for anyone intending to visit the  
colonies,” Pellew said as he followed.  
Banks smiled. “Yes—but I receive few callers so important as yourself, Sir Edward. I am relieved to know that the safety of the colonies will be in your hands, in these uncertain times.”  
Pellew nodded stiffly; he still felt the task was beneath his station but he was pleased that Banks, at least, appreciated his services.  
They had reached the room Banks used as trustee of the Museum. “Do make yourselves comfortable,” he said, “and we can have a little talk.”  
Banks needed no prompting to impart some of his vast knowledge of the southern part of the world, though occasional pointed questions were required to direct his reflections along those avenues that would be practically useful to the two naval officers. Banks’ interests were not limited to natural history and his commentary shifted effortlessly from trade in the Pacific Ocean to his voyages with Cook and a digression on the genus melaleuca until a gentle prompt from Pellew set him back on course. Banks spoke with equal enthusiasm about the Sydney settlement; he had made himself an advocate for the colony and was in regular contact with the governor and other persons there, who often wrote to him more intimately and in greater detail than in their regular reports to the Admiralty.  
“—Though, since the war, it has been difficult to say a single world on the behalf of the colonies,” Banks explained. “One would think England had forgotten that she ever sent men and women to New Holland.”  
Pellew nodded; he confessed to being one of those who scarcely gave the colonies a moment’s thought—until the previous morning.  
“So I am very glad that that their Lordships have come to their senses,” Banks went on. “It would be unforgivable to lose what we have taken such pains to achieve—and that is not inconsiderable, Sir Edward. Indeed, I almost wish I could accompany you on this voyage. I constantly hear of developments in the colony that I should very much like to see for myself, if only my health permitted me.”  
“Mm.” said Pellew. Banks was only a few years older than himself and he wondered whether the fact that he had not ventured outside Europe in the past thirty years was perhaps due to recalcitrance rather than ill-health.  
“There were terrible agricultural difficulties at Sydney Cove,” Banks explained. “However, some very promising progress has been made at Parramatta. Successful crops there have made the colony virtually self-sufficient and Governor King wrote in his last letter that John Macarthur hopes to export his wool next year.”  
“Indeed,” Pellew said more enthusiastically. A colony that could help England meet the demands of continuous war was worth protecting.

Banks had much to say of agricultural successes in the colony. “I fully expect it will some day become the bread-basket of Britain. And the continent— or is it an island? You can decide for yourself.”  
“A very small continent or a very large island,” said Pellew.  
“Quite so, Sir Edward. But what was I saying?” Banks frowned. “Oh yes—very rich natural resources. There is already a coal-trade with Asia and who knows what we may find as time wears on!”  
“I hear there is also a significant whaling industry,” said Pellew, recalling his conversation with Lord Melville.  
“Oh yes! Constant wrangles over the fishery, you know how it is, but the sealers had discovered the south before Captain Flinders or our French friends ever surveyed the area.”  
“You mean Captain Baudin?” said Pellew.  
“Yes.” Banks seemed to sober at the mention of that name. “It’s a terrible thing, Sir Edward, and I must confess I do not quite understand it.”  
Pellew lowered his voice. “Can you tell me anything of that expedition?”  
Banks nodded. “I fear I may incriminate myself—in fact I assisted, when asked, in obtaining a passport for what I understood to be a scientific expedition. That was during the peace, of course, and at the time I saw no reason to doubt the agenda as it was expressed to me.”  
“You do not incriminate yourself, sir,” said Pellew, who doubted that Banks doubted himself anyway: the man seemed entirely self-assured. “The ulterior purpose was well-concealed.”  
“Other men were suspicious, however, and—once the peace ended—one of the French ships was detained in Portsmouth. I petitioned the Admiralty to release that ship.”  
“I heard of those events, sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Then, captain, you may also have heard that the ship was loaded with specimens and scientific reports. There was no sign of espionage—but now I see the French have abused our trust.”  
Pellew frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.” It did not cross his mind to consider what breaches of trust might have been committed by British agents in obtaining the report he had read that morning.  
“Most unfortunate, Sir Edward,” Banks agreed. “I suppose you have heard of poor Captain Flinders?”  
“Imprisoned as a spy at Mauritius, I believe?” As commander-in-chief in the East Indies, Pellew had expected to exert himself on Flinders’ behalf.  
“Yes,” Banks sighed, “and without just cause, though the French won’t believe it: if their voyage was a subterfuge, then ours must be, too.”  
“Indeed.”  
“We must comfort ourselves that we are doing what we can.” Banks sighed again. “Alas, I am afraid I must leave you presently—the Privy Council is to deliver a judgement tomorrow, and I must attend the final deliberations.”

“Of course,” said Pellew; Hornblower raised his eyebrows: naturalist, explorer, President of the Royal Society, trustee of the British Museum, member of the Privy Council—Banks was a man of many talents. “But might I ask one final question?” Pellew added.  
“Please do.”  
“Do you believe the French want the continent for themselves?” “Why of course,” said Banks, as though he took it for granted. “Why  
should they not want it? The advantages are obvious.”  
“I see.” Pellew was surprised by such strength of conviction.  
“I have no doubt that the French have every intention of establishing a settlement themselves,” said Banks, leaning in slightly. “On the other hand, it would be much simpler to take ours.”

“And all this was a surprise to you?” Hornblower asked, later that evening, as he and Pellew sat together over the remains of a meal at the admiral’s London club.  
“Surprise? A rude shock, I should think. I woke yesterday morning expecting to sail for Bombay before the month’s end, only to find I am being transported!” Pellew sipped his wine; his feathers were ruffled but the meeting with Banks had reassured him that there was no great shame in serving in the South Pacific—or so he told himself. “In fairness, I do not think their Lordships would have thrust this upon me at such short notice, were it not that the business has so recently come to light.” Pellew hoped he could believe his own words.  
Hornblower nodded. “And, if that is the case, I suppose it is not unreasonable that Port Jackson should be brought within your responsibilities in the Indies.” Almost without realising it, Hornblower too was attempting to assure Pellew of the importance of his new orders.  
“Reasonable enough, in that it’s only several thousand miles out of the way, rather than tens of thousands… If nothing else, I suppose this exercise will afford me a better grasp of the enormity of the world.”  
Hornblower allowed himself a wry smile; he wondered whether Pellew really meant ‘enormity’ or simply ‘enormousness’. Meanwhile one of the club’s liveried servants came by the table to collect the two men’s plates.  
“It will certainly be an unparalleled experience—sir,” Hornblower replied. He had to remind himself to add the appellation; he seldom called Pellew ‘sir’ in private but, in public, it was advisable not to flaunt their intimacy.  
“Yes.” Pellew looked seriously at Hornblower. “Is this talk of experience a clue to your intentions, captain?”  
Hornblower folded his hands on the edge of the table. “I believe you urged me to reserve my opinion, sir, but I do believe a voyage to the South Pacific would be a valuable experience for any officer and, of course, I am eager to apply myself wherever I might be of assistance.”

“I’m not ordering you to accept this command, Hornblower. It is for you to decide—and not a decision you should take lightly.” Pellew wanted to be very clear about that.  
“I shall endeavour not to, sir.” A minute passed before Hornblower added, “But if I do not accept your offer, I have no guarantee of another ship—”  
“Nonsense,” Pellew began—the young man was far too talented a captain to be long without a command—but Hornblower cut him off.  
“And it might be years before I see you again.” His brown eyes seized the admiral’s and held them relentlessly.  
Pellew was rattled. “Almost certainly,” he said, speaking rapidly, “but for God’s sake keep your voice down.”  
“Sorry sir.” Hornblower looked away. He was ashamed of himself for having spoken that way in public, even though he did not think that any of the other gentlemen in the club could have heard.  
“Hornblower, we’ve discussed this.” Pellew’s voice was hushed almost to a whisper. “I will sail to Port Jackson, then to the Indies, if all goes to plan, and God knows how long I may remain there.”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“But, if I may presume to know your feelings—and perhaps I flatter myself—I felt the same way when you transferred to Renown.”  
“You recommended me, sir.”  
“Yes. Because, however much I regretted it personally, it had to be done. An officer in His Majesty’s Navy cannot let his…” Pellew leaned in closer and whispered, “Cannot let his heart stand in the way of his career.”  
“No sir.”  
“Of course, we may not be separated,” Pellew went on, his voice soft and deep so as not to be overheard, “but that is a professional decision you must make for yourself. Whatever feelings you may have for me should not be grounds for subjecting yourself to transportation. Is that clear?”  
“Yes sir.” Hornblower squared his shoulders.  
“Good.” Pellew cleared his throat. “But damn all this talk of business— I’ve not even asked you how you are!”  
Hornblower smiled too; having maintained more-or-less professional relations all afternoon, it was a pleasure to hear Pellew address him as a friend. “Well—well enough, given I’ve nothing to do.”  
“Which I presume to mean you’re penniless once more?”  
“No.” Hornblower shook his head. “In fact, I’ve managed to save something for the first time in my life.”  
Pellew chuckled. “Scandalous. I take it, then, that you’re no longer dependent on the card table to keep the bailiffs at bay?”  
“No, sir.” Hornblower blushed slightly. He was not entirely proud of the fact that, during the peace, he had been forced to gamble for a living—especially since Admiral Pellew had sometimes proved a very good loser.

“A shame. I always enjoyed our evenings—”  
“—And I am enjoying my solvency.” He held Pellew’s eyes for a moment before adding, “I might be able to let you win, for once.”  
“I think I have a better idea: finish your wine, and let’s see what we can take off these unsuspecting gentlemen.”

“A profitable enterprise,” Pellew pronounced as they left the club later that night. “I always feel that I play better in your company.”  
Hornblower smiled quietly. “I fear I detected the opposite, last year.” “Perhaps—but with good reason.” In fact, there had been one or two  
occasions when Pellew had let Hornblower win, in order that the young man might pay his debts. “You were looking rather pale and thin.”  
They climbed into the carriage.  
“And I’m not now?” Hornblower asked.  
“Well, in this light, I couldn’t say—but I would be happy to inspect you later.” Pellew caught Hornblower’s eyes and added, “Horatio.”  
“Edward…” At last Hornblower felt like he had really arrived: he had spent the afternoon with Pellew the admiral and the evening with Pellew his friend but only now was he with Edward, who was so much more.  
“Well… do you have a place to sleep?” Hornblower blinked. “I had assumed—” “—You assume correctly.”  
Pellew grinned and the carriage rattled on its way.

Arriving at Pellew’s rooms for the second time that day, Hornblower felt like a different person. “It’s so nice to see you,” he said bashfully, as if they were greeting each other for the first time.  
“I think I may be grateful to Lord Melville after all for affording me an excuse to invite you here.”  
“You know you need no excuse, Edward.” Hornblower came closer, so they were standing bare inches apart—yet he could not quite breach the invisible barrier that had existed between them all afternoon.  
Pellew had been aware of that barrier, too, though neither man acknowledged it in words. He reached out one hand, tentatively but deliberately, and touched Hornblower’s cheek.  
Hornblower let out a shaky breath that became a self-conscious laugh.  
Pellew smiled. “Just now, I didn’t think I could do that.” As he spoke, his hand drifted haltingly across the plane of Horatio’s cheek and along the line of his jaw. “Why is that?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“I wanted to, all afternoon.”

Hornblower took Edward’s free hand in his. “So did I.” He was not sure if he had wanted to, or if he had wanted to want to, but it was what he wanted now.  
Pellew shook his head slowly. “All this talk of intrigue and invasion… I’ve been so stiff and formal.”  
Hornblower pressed his lips together, then ventured, “Stiff, sir?” With those two little words, the barrier shattered.  
“Oh Horatio!” Pellew laughed, drawing the younger man to him. “For God’s sake don’t call me ‘sir’ if you’re going to talk like that!”  
Pellew barely got the words out before Hornblower shut him up with an urgent kiss. From that moment on, it was as though they had never been apart; as though the lonely weeks that Hornblower had spent in Portsmouth while Pellew was home with his wife had never passed and they were still together as they had been, the last time, on the Tonnant. Edward’s hands roved freely now over the younger man’s back and Horatio clutched at his shoulders. Edward twined his fingers in Horatio’s curls and Horatio reciprocated by pressing their noses together, so they shared their breath until at last they met again in a long exploratory kiss.  
“What was I waiting for?” Pellew asked himself, mouthing the words to Horatio’s top lip.  
“I don’t know, I don’t remember any more,” Hornblower murmured. Then he seized his lover’s long grey pigtail, pulling his head back to kiss his creased neck. Pellew gasped in surprise, so Hornblower slipped his hands inside his coat to soothe him, kneading his neck and shoulders through the linen of his shirt and whispering “Sorry” in his ear.  
“Don’t be,” Pellew sighed, and found his hand drawn irresistibly to the bit of black silk knotted at Horatio’s neck. He tugged at the collar, exposing another inch of hidden skin, then worked on the knot until the silk came loose in his hands. “Horatio,” he whispered, caressing his Adam’s apple with his words, then burying his lips in the soft hollow of his clavicle. At the same time Edward felt his coat pulled from his shoulders; hands plied hungrily at his red satin sash and soon it fell as well. The star of the Order of the Bath and all the admiral’s braid glittered irreverently and irrelevantly from the floor.  
Two dress uniforms were under their feet. Hornblower was stripped down to his oversized shirt and Pellew was bare above his breeches. He ran his fingers through Hornblower’s shirt ruffles, allowing himself a glimpse of still-hairless chest. Then he kissed his neck, kissing down, nosing the fabric aside until the shirt slipped from his shoulder. Horatio moved to fix it but Edward caught his hand and kissed his knuckles instead. “I think it is time for the inspection,” Pellew said breathily and pushed his tongue between middle and forefinger.  
“Oh!” Hornblower jumped. He took a moment to remember what Edward was referring to and, by the time he did, he found himself entirely naked.

Pellew sighed as his eyes ran up and down the slender body before him. He came closer, closing the space between them, so his solid body was pressed against Hornblower’s lean back. He moved slowly, placing one hand over the young man’s firm, flat stomach and another over one nipple. Then he pulled, pulling them closer still. “Still thin and pale,” he whispered in the ear nearest his lips, “but very, very beautiful.” Those words made Hornblower wriggle, but Edward only held him more tightly. As he spoke, his hands shifted over Horatio’s skin, settling slowly down.  
Down. Hornblower turned abruptly in Pellew’s arms and sealed his lips with a feverish kiss.  
“Oh dear,” Pellew gasped, when he had a chance to draw breath. He had wondered if Horatio was lonely in Portsmouth; it seemed he had his answer now. He could never quite believe that this beautiful young man should come to him—should tangle glossy curls with a tatty grey mane and bend slender limbs to a stocky old trunk—yet there he was, warm and alive and lovely in his arms.  
They began in the middle of the room but the force of their passion drove them back to the door. “This won’t do at all,” Pellew rasped as he felt his feet leave the rug for bare flagstones. “Horatio—Horatio!” He plucked one of Hornblower’s hands from his hip and, taking him by the wrist, led him through the other door into his bedroom.  
“Is this better?” he breathed, when they found themselves on the bed. A fire burned warmly in the hearth and bathed the lovers in a cosy light.  
Hornblower nodded and closed his eyes. Then they kissed and touched and tugged at each other, until both each was satisfied.

“I want to come with you,” Hornblower whispered, afterwards, as they lay curled together on the soft feather bed.  
Pellew stirred from his contended doze. “Horatio, it will be a long gruelling voyage, with little promise of glory and still less of riches.” As he spoke, he trailed one finger along the line of the young man’s spine. “You will be far from the action in Europe and far from hearth and home.”  
“But what home do I have, other than with you?” Hornblower turned onto his other side and looked intently into his lover’s dark brown eyes.  
Pellew was lost for words. He could deny Horatio nothing when he looked like that.  
“I’m coming with you.”  
“Then I am thoroughly reconciled to this voyage.” Pellew hoped Horatio had not let sentiment overcome his better sense but he let himself trust him because it was what he wanted, too. “I’ll kiss the First Lord’s hand!” he declared.  
Hornblower laughed and kissed Edward’s hand instead.  
“However, there is one more thing you should know, before committing yourself.”  
“What is that?”

“I’m asking you to serve as my flag captain, Horatio.” Hornblower nodded.  
“Well, that will mean putting up with me for months on end—and that before we even reach New Holland.”  
Hornblower squeezed his hand. “Is that supposed to be a deterrent or an incentive?”  
“Oh Horatio, don’t flatter me!” Pellew cried, and kissed him again.


	2. Chapter 2

“She looks a fine ship,” Lieutenant Bush told his captain as they stood dockside in Portsmouth, a few hundred yards from where Hyacinth bobbed at anchor with a launch under her lee, unloading supplies. “A razee, sir?” His experienced eyes recognised the lines of the frigate, cut-down from a larger ship.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. “Her heavier framing was thought advantageous for the southern passage—if we weigh anchor next week, we should reach southern waters by the start of the stormy season.”  
“That will be a rough ride, sir.”  
Hornblower smiled. “Then be glad you’re not still with Hotspur.” Hornblower’s old ship was anchored next to Hyacinth. The sloop and her newly- appointed captain had been requisitioned to Pellew’s little fleet. Now that he had a ship of his own, Hornblower was no longer envious of Captain Walton. He was pleased to see his old ship again—and see how small she looked next to Hyacinth.  
“Aye sir,” Bush laughed. Hornblower suspected he too would be pleased to see the sloop from the deck of a forty-gun frigate.  
“We’ll be able to take advantage of seasonal westerlies,” Hornblower went on. “Time, Mr Bush, is of the essence.”  
“Then—with respect, sir—what are we waiting for?”  
“Admiral Pellew and a captain for Pygmalion.” The Pygmalion, a pretty sloop with twenty-two guns but no man to command her, floated alongside Hotspur. “In the mean time, I’ll give you the tour.”  
They climbed into the jolly boat and rowed out to the frigate.  
“Sir,” said Bush, “may I ask why we’re taking an admiral to the colonies?” Bush had received only a summary briefing since arriving that morning from his sisters’ home in the north.  
“Because the situation seems to warrant it,” Hornblower replied, somewhat guardedly. Bush, as was his nature, accepted the explanation without question.  
“The colonies…” he said. “I knew a woman back home whose son was transported for larceny.”  
“What did he steal?” said Hornblower, only half listening as he admired his frigate, with her new paintwork and her elegant masts towering towards the sky. He felt the same thrill as the first time he had boarded her.

“A pair of old boots, sir,” Bush answered. “Or at least that’s what his mother said.”  
“I’m sure she spoke the truth.” Hornblower had seen similar stories in newspapers: mothers transported for stealing bread for their children; men transported for defending them. But there was no time for further discussion before they were hailed from the frigate.  
“Hyacinth,” the man at the tiller returned. Hornblower could vaguely hear  
the relayed cries of “Captain’s coming aboard!”, “Man the sides!”, “Lively now!” as his crew prepared to welcome him.  
Hornblower was greeted by Master Prowse and Lieutenant Martin.  
Hornblower had scarcely met Martin but he seemed a competent officer and Hornblower returned his salute with a genial smile. Even the irascible Prowse had proved a more pleasant person since Hornblower secured his transfer from a twenty-gun sloop to a forty-gun frigate, even if that meant a voyage half way round the world. Still, Prowse’s grumbling about dysentery, dehydration and the doldrums reflected his experience in southern waters and Hornblower, for once, was glad to hear his complaints.  
Orrock was there, too, and Matthews in his bosun’s hat; among the crew, a number of familiar faces—some from Pellew’s ships and some from his— grinned at their captain as he passed and Hornblower nodded in return. He could not help but feel pleased with his lot, though how pleased his crew would be when they learned where they were going was another matter, which he would have to assess and address in time.  
Hornblower led Bush to the wardroom.  
“Your state rooms,” he announced, stopping outside Bush’ tiny berth. “And mine.” He indicated the next.  
“Your quarters, sir?” Bush was momentarily puzzled. “But of course.”  
“Yes. With the admiral on board—” “—You have to give up your cabin, sir.”  
“It will be as if we were lieutenants again,” said Hornblower, slapping the timber bulkhead. “But I’d rather sleep like a lieutenant on a frigate than a captain on a sloop.” He declined to add that he expected to sleep in the great cabin from time to time, with Admiral Pellew.  
“Yes sir.” Bush laughed huskily. “Congratulations, sir.” He would not presume to tell his captain what to think, except that he ought to be congratulated. “A frigate, sir!”  
“Thank you.” Hornblower smiled again. “Now, shall we see the rest of the  
ship?”

Admiral Pellew came aboard three days later. Hyacinth was in a state of chaos that morning as the marines were brought aboard. Hornblower barely had time to clear the deck, run up the admiral’s pennant and arrange the customary honours before Pellew appeared over the side. He breathed a sigh of relief when

he heard the correct number of shots fired and saw the colours unfurl in time. “Admiral Pellew,” he said, bowing over his hat. “Welcome aboard, sir.”  
“Captain Hornblower.”  
No-one would have known they were friends, let alone lovers, Hornblower thought with satisfaction; he was so busy he had almost forgotten himself.  
“You’ve done well, captain,” Pellew remarked, a minute later, when they adjourned to the admiral’s cabin.  
“We’re only waiting on the marines, sir,” Hornblower volunteered. “The provisions are on board, and the cannon for the colony.” Hyacinth would carry four guns to Sydney, thirty-two-pounders taken out of an old first rate. They had been winched aboard earlier in the week, before the rest of the supplies, and stowed carefully. Hornblower had worked closely with Prowse to ensure that the ship would not be unbalanced by the addition of all that metal. Now he stood to attention: he felt as though he and Pellew were playing at captain and admiral, and he was enjoying his part as competent flag captain making his report. “Captain Walton and Lieutenant Keogh report the sloops are also ready, sir. We will be able to set sail as soon as—”  
“Yes yes—no sense in rushing, Captain. We’re not going anywhere without a captain for Pygmalion.”  
“Of course, sir.”  
“That decision should be finalised by this afternoon,” said Pellew. He walked to the gallery window and added, without turning, “We will depart tomorrow, as scheduled.”  
“Aye sir.” Hornblower’s shoulders dropped a little as he realised Pellew’s clipped words were not simply part of the game—and it was not a game, he reminded himself. They were captain and admiral, first and foremost; everything else must come second. He hesitated, wondering whether he should leave Edward to settle into his new cabin and recover from whatever it was that had irritated him but, before he could excuse himself, Pellew turned to him with a smile.  
“Did you think so too?” Hornblower frowned. “Sir?”  
“When I saw her from the dock, I couldn’t help but think she was the  
Indefatigable.”  
“Oh.” Hornblower smiled. “Both razees, sir.” “Perhaps,” said Pellew. “Or is it that you’re here?” Hornblower blinked bashfully. “It’s good to be here.”  
“It’s been a long time since we served on the same ship.” “Five years, sir.”  
“Mm.”

The two men looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then Pellew turned his attention to the cabin that would be his home for the indefinite future.  
“Not as grand as the Tonnant,” said Hornblower.  
“No, but it has other appeals.” Pellew’s eye twinkled, yet his cheerfulness seemed somehow forced. “I dread to think what little box you’ve found for yourself.”  
Hornblower smiled faintly. “My quarters are perfectly acceptable.” “Hmm.”  
“I assure you, sir.” Hornblower could not complain about his quarters, since that was the price of having an admiral on board—and he would much rather have the admiral. “Did you have a pleasant trip home, sir?” he asked conversationally.  
“Yes, thank you,” Pellew said distantly. Then he seized Hornblower’s eyes. “Horatio, I went to say goodbye.”  
Hornblower nodded vaguely. He wished he could look away but Edward’s eyes were magnetic; almost disconcerting.  
“I might not see them for years—Susan and the children.” Pellew looked away, releasing Hornblower just as abruptly as he had caught him. “I might never see them again.”  
Hornblower did not know what to say. He could count the number of times Edward had spoken of his family on two hands, or so it seemed sometimes; sometimes he forgot that Edward had a family. It had barely crossed his mind that he would miss them on such a long voyage and he did not know what to say. “I’m sorry, sir—”  
“It’s all right,” Pellew said hastily. He seemed embarrassed by his own display of emotion. “Please excuse me.”  
Hornblower bowed slightly and left the room but he did not takes his eyes from Pellew until he had closed the door.

Hornblower saw little more of Pellew that day, as he was busy looking over ratings lists, inspecting the ship and checking-off the more important provisions: medical supplies, navigational instruments, preserved lime juice and other supplies that could not be obtained easily once they left England. With so many marines aboard in addition to the ship’s crew, all of them needing to be fed and clothed and accommodated for the long voyage, the ship’s hold was full to capacity and the mess deck was even more cramped than usual. Hornblower was grateful when he found a quiet hour or two to shut himself in his cabin and read Cook and D’Entrecasteaux. Hornblower hoped to enrich what he had learned from the standard navigational texts by the personal experiences of explorers in southern waters. He would use the trade winds as far as the equator, then join the strong westerlies in the south that would carry his ship to the Cape of Good

Hope and on to New Holland, but he had yet to decide precisely what course to take.  
By the time Hornblower emerged from his tiny cabin, Bush was able to report that the last of the marines were aboard and the ship was ready to sail.  
“Thank you, Mr Bush.” Hornblower lingered for a few minutes, still pondering the imagined maps he had drawn in his mind. He was grateful to have such a hardworking and dependable a man as Bush for his second in command; Hyacinth was carrying four times as many men as Hotspur, three times her firepower, and she would be at sea for much longer, but Bush was as efficient as ever.  
Pellew too was busy with final preparations, to judge by the number of messages relayed between ship and shore. Then, as dusk closed in, the officer of the watch noted a shore boat rowing out to Pygmalion with a commander on board. The epaulette on his left shoulder caught the dying sun.  
“It seems the admiral has found a captain, sir,” Bush observed.  
“Yes.” Hornblower squinted in the fading light but he had no chance of making out the sloop’s captain, even if he knew the man.  
“He’ll have barely had a chance to see his ship before we set sail, sir.” A few minutes later, Pygmalion signalled.  
“Report,” said Hornblower.  
“Aye sir: ‘Pygmalion to Flagship: Captain aboard’.”  
“Thank you, Mr Martin. Mr Orrock, inform Admiral Pellew.” “Aye sir.” Orrock touched his hat and hurried aft.  
“Do we know who it is, sir?” Bush asked.  
“Not yet, Mr Bush.” Pellew had kept Hornblower guessing, just as he had when they were captain and midshipman. “Though I presume the admiral knows.”  
“Well, you never know, sir, at such short notice.” Bush smiled.  
Bush was in a good mood, Hornblower mused; he was more talkative than usual. But he said little more before Orrock returned from the great cabin.  
“The admiral’s respects, sir, he requests that you signal ‘All captains report to flagship at eight bells’.”  
“Thank you, Mr Orrock.”  
Hyacinth signalled and the two sloops acknowledged.  
“‘All captains’—I suppose that includes me,” said Hornblower. He pulled his watch from his pocket and saw that he had twenty minutes. “If you will excuse me, Mr Bush.”  
Bush nodded and Hornblower went below to shave.

Captain Walton was already waiting outside Pellew’s cabin when Hornblower arrived, five minutes before the end of the watch. “Captain Hornblower,” he saluted.

hear.”

“Captain Walton.” Hornblower returned the gesture. “Hotspur is ready, I

“Yes sir—do you think we will sail tomorrow?”  
“I presume that is what the admiral has called us here to tell us,”

Hornblower said, then knocked on the cabin door.  
“Enter,” came Pellew’s voice. Walton followed Hornblower inside. “Good evening, sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Good evening, gentlemen—just the two of you?” “I believe we are three minutes early.”  
“Well, do help yourselves.” Pellew already had wine beside him; decanter and glasses were on the table.  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower, pouring two glasses. “I am pleased to report all marines aboard, sir.”  
“Very good.” Pellew rose. “And Hotspur’s ready, I hear.” He looked at  
Walton.  
“Aye sir—though, if I may say so, there was little to be done. Captain Hornblower left her in very good shape, sir.” Walton smiled pleasantly. A year or two younger than Hornblower, he seemed an affable young man and, since he now had a ship of his own, Hornblower was well disposed to like him.  
“I’m sure,” said Pellew. “Still, a voyage to the South Pacific is no mean

task.”

“No sir,” Walton agreed.  
Outside, the ship’s bell rang and the men were called to mess. That

seemed to remind Pellew of something. “I hope you gentlemen will dine with me tonight?”  
“Yes sir,” said Hornblower, who had expected as much; Walton nodded. At any rate, the admiral’s table had already been cleared and four places set. “But perhaps, sir, we might wait a little.”  
“Mm,” said Pellew.  
A minute later, a knock on the door broke the slightly strained silence. “Enter.”  
The man who appeared had dark hair, round dark eyes, and a single epaulette which identified him as Pygmalion’s captain. Glancing about the cabin, he noted the two captains already present before saying, a little anxiously, “I apologise for the delay, sir.”  
It was, at the most, two minutes past the hour. Pellew did not dwell on the point. “Captain Hornblower, Captain Walton,” he said, “this is Captain Pellew.”  
Walton looked sidelong at Hornblower, who was just as surprised as he. But, after the briefest hesitation, Hornblower extended his hand. “A pleasure, sir.”  
Captain Pellew nodded. “Captain Hornblower.” He shook Walton’s hand as well.

“Ah, a glass of wine, Captain?” said the admiral, reaching for the decanter. “Thank you sir.”  
Hornblower did not know the commander’s first name but he had his suspicions. To his knowledge, there was only one commander in the fleet by the name of Pellew and those round brown eyes seemed to confirm his identity.  
Admiral Pellew, however, was strangely unforthcoming. He was carrying on like they were two Smiths, whom no-one would presume to be related.  
“You’ve called aboard Pygmalion?” Pellew asked.  
“Yes sir, briefly. Lieutenant—Lieutenant Keogh reports that everything is in order.”  
How briefly Captain Pellew had been aboard his ship was evident from his struggle to recall Keogh’s name. Presumably he had heard it first only twenty minutes ago; still, Hornblower thought twenty minutes ought to be enough to learn the name of one’s first lieutenant.  
“Good,” said the admiral. “Then we shall sail tomorrow, as planned.  
However, since my steward is due to make his entrance, I propose we reserve a more detailed discussion until we have had something to eat.”  
The three captains nodded and, at Pellew’s invitation, took their seats. A discreet knock brought forth the admiral’s steward with a steaming dish on each hand, then another two, then another two and side serves as well, until the table seemed set with enough food to feed all Hyacinth’s officers twice over.  
“What a feast, sir!” Walton told Pellew, with an appreciative glance in the steward’s direction.  
“We might as well enjoy a fresh meal while we can, Captain Walton, for we’ve a long future of salt beef and biscuit ahead of us.”  
“Of course,” said Walton; meanwhile the servant made some sort of grumbling noise. Pellew had a knack for choosing dour-faced stewards who were, however, particularly good cooks, and good cooks always resented dried provisions.  
“How long is the voyage expected to take, sir?” asked Captain Pellew.  
The admiral cleared his throat. “What would you think, if I were to say four months?”  
“Four months, sir?” Hornblower frowned. “Most ships take five or six—” “—Most ships are slowed down by long stops and lack of naval training,”  
Pellew interrupted.  
Hornblower inclined his head thoughtfully; he had spent some time that afternoon reading about the voyages of experienced navigators who had taken considerably longer than four months to reach Port Jackson and certainly could not be considered poor seamen, however Pellew was right that most ships made stops that were not necessary to a voyage of this sort—and one could hardly compare the track chart of a fast frigate to the ships that carried convicts.

“As I recall,” said Pellew, “the Coromandel, a transport vessel, made a continuous passage in one hundred and twenty-one days.” Pellew had evidently done his reading, too.  
“I would be interested to see the course she took, sir.”  
“And you will—but you needn’t be too conscientious, captain: enjoy your meal first.” Pellew smiled. “After all, we wouldn’t want to spill this French stuff all over New Holland, would we?” He tapped his wine glass.  
“No sir,” said Hornblower.  
The others laughed light heartedly but Hornblower felt less comfortable.  
The reason was sitting before him in the shape of Captain Pellew.

Over the remains of the meal, Pellew proceeded to summarise the purpose of their voyage to New Holland and the work they could expect to be engaged upon once they arrived.  
“French after our penal colonies? I never would have thought it, sir,” Walton remarked as the steward cleared the table.  
“No,” said Pellew. “But it’s not the convicts they want.”  
Walton nodded. “Makes a lot more sense when you look at it that way,

sir.”

Captain Pellew, however, seemed troubled. “Do we really expect a French

invasion—sir?” He seemed to remember to add ‘sir’ only at the last instant. “That is what we are attempting to forestall,” said the admiral.  
“With two sloops and a frigate?” The commander frowned. “Where’s the firepower?”  
Pellew frowned too, though perhaps for a different reason. “In the two sloops and the frigate, sir.”  
“This ship still has twenty-four-pounders on her main deck, captain,” Hornblower explained, wishing he knew precisely whom he was speaking to.  
The younger Pellew nodded woodenly; Hornblower could not tell whether he felt that he had been chastised or was merely calculating the firepower of the little fleet.  
“The stakes may be high, gentlemen,” said Pellew, “but I do not expect to see anything bigger than a corvette—at least not in the Pacific.” As far as he knew, the only heavier French vessels in that quarter of the world were tied up in the Indies with Admiral Linois. “In any case, we have to get there first.” He unrolled a map of the world; it covered half the table. “Can you all see that?”  
“Yes sir,” said Walton, though he was reading the map upside down. The other captains nodded.  
“Well, I can’t, but never mind.” Pellew squinted as he traced out the track- charts marked on the map. “This is the route taken by Captain Cook, which will be familiar to you all.” He tapped the islands of Polynesia. “We don’t need to get mixed up in the exploration business. The traders, too, have their diversions—”

At that point, the map decided to re-roll itself. Pellew flattened it out again and Walton held down the far corners.  
“The transport ships tend to take this course.” Pellew indicated stops at Rio De Janeiro and the Cape of Good Hope. “What I am suggesting is this route.” He pointed out a third passage that bisected the Atlantic, crossed the equator and skirted the coast of South America without putting in at Rio, then turned east-south-east to round the Cape, crossed the Indian Ocean at the fortieth parallel and approached Port Jackson from the south.  
“Non-stop, sir?” said Hornblower.  
“Not necessarily. The Coromandel did it non-stop—God knows how they only lost the one man—but I don’t want to lose any men. We’ll stop if we have to. Even so, this course should see us in Port Jackson four months from now— winds permitting, of course.” Pellew looked at Hornblower, seeking his opinion.  
“I agree, sir,” he replied. “It is the most direct route, though we must be careful not to cross the equator too far east.”  
“Yes,” said Pellew. “That is why I propose we take this course, before turning east.” He tapped the coast of South America.  
Hornblower nodded.  
“Any questions?” Pellew asked the table.  
Captain Pellew seemed troubled again. “Will our supplies last the distance, sir?”  
“I hope so, captain. We will attend closely to the health of our crews and of our stores. If need be, we will put in at Saint Helena. Tonight, however, I saw no need for strict rationing.” Pellew smiled.  
Hornblower smiled too. Edward was showing himself the agreeable flag officer he had known in the Channel; he had simply been out of sorts when he came on board, which was perfectly understandable, given he had just farewelled his family for the indefinite future—but not his entire family, surely. Hornblower eyed Captain Pellew, who looked so very like the admiral.  
Before long, Pellew rolled up the chart and wound up the meeting. “Of course, we will have ample time for further discussion. For now, I thank you for your company and bid you all a good night.”  
“Thank you, sir,” said Walton. He collected his hat and left.  
“Good night,” said Hornblower. Then he looked at the two Pellews. “Sir—”.  
“—You needn’t leave, captain,” Pellew cut him off. “Though, if you’re tired, I’ll not detain you.”  
Hornblower shook his head. “No sir, I merely thought—”  
Pellew looked at the two captains. “Indeed. I must apologise for not having introduced you properly.”  
Hornblower doubted that Pellew had simply forgotten to do so, but he restrained himself from raising an eyebrow.

“As you’ve probably realised, Hornblower, this is my son, Captain Pownoll Pellew.”  
Hornblower looked now with even greater interest; he had guessed the captain’s identity, though Pownoll Pellew might possibly have been Fleetwood. “It is a pleasure, captain,” he said.  
Now Pellew looked at his son. “I fancy Captain Hornblower needs no introduction?”  
“No sir,” Pownoll said quietly, extending his hand to shake Hornblower’s once more. “I’ve heard much about you.”  
Pellew nodded. “I hope the two of you will enjoy working together.” “I’m sure, sir,” said Hornblower. In fact he did not know how he felt. It  
was strange enough to think that Edward had a son, let alone find himself serving with him.

Hornblower stayed long enough to learn that Pownoll Pellew’s appointment to Pygmalion had been confirmed just that afternoon, but he learned nothing else, for the young man seemed just as uncomfortable in Hornblower’s presence as Hornblower in his. Instead he excused himself and left father and son to talk.  
In his cabin, Hornblower continued his voyage to the South Pacific in the words of the great navigators. He spread a chart of the globe across his knees— there was no room even for a desk—and read by the light of a single candle.  
Delighted as he was to have command of Hyacinth, there were certainly  
disadvantages to using a frigate as a flagship; he wondered idly whether working in such conditions might leave his eyes as dim as Edward’s by the time they reached New South Wales. Normally he would have worked in the wardroom or the admiral’s cabin, but he did not wish to disturb his officers nor Pellew and his son.  
Hornblower had almost lost patience with La Pérouse’s French when he heard a tap on the door. “Come,” he said and was surprised to see Pellew. An admiral would not ordinarily go crawling through the mess deck—but Pellew was not an ordinary admiral.  
“Captain Hornblower…” Pellew hesitated when he saw the book open on Hornblower’s lap. “I did not mean to interrupt—”  
Hornblower shook his head. “I was finishing anyway—sir,” Like Pownoll, Hornblower was not sure when to say ‘sir’. In London, he and Pellew had been Horatio and Edward but since then the time apart, the rush to ready the ship, and all the other officers about had frosted over that easiness, so Hornblower no longer knew whether he was speaking to his lover or his admiral.  
Pellew looked around the little cabin, as long as a man, not quite as high, and scarcely four feet wide. “This brings back memories,” he said, thinking of a time, many years ago, when he had berthed in the wardroom. Then he looked at

his flag captain and the books covering his cot. “Hornblower, I do regret seeing you in this little box!”  
“I have no complaints, sir.”  
“Of course you don’t. You never do.” Pellew shuffled a little further inside, stooping so as not to hit his head. “Please do come to the great cabin, whenever you please.”  
Hornblower looked up. “To work, sir?” The candlelight played alluringly on his warm brown eyes.  
“Yes, to work, and whatever you think…” Pellew smiled. “Whatever you think fitting.”  
Hornblower set his book aside. “And what would be ‘fitting’?” he asked, still gazing into Pellew’s eyes. He was flirting, he supposed.  
“I defer to your judgement, captain.”  
At that, Hornblower held out his hand. Pellew took it, and sat with him.  
The cot creaked under their combined weight. This was Edward, Horatio thought happily.  
They were quiet for a minute or two.  
“Horatio, I didn’t expect this, or I would have told you.” Hornblower frowned, puzzled.  
“Pownoll. He was to go to the Indies but when I heard the news… well, I suggested he might stay home and hope for something in the Channel or the Mediterranean, but he wanted something now and I suppose he forced my hand. I think he wanted the adventure, too.”  
“You hardly need apologise.”  
“I can’t apologise. He is my son but he’s a clever boy and not a bad sailor. I hope he’ll do well.”  
“Boy?” Hornblower could not contain a little smile. “He can’t be much younger than I.”  
Pellew shook his head. “Twenty-four in July.”  
“Was I your boy, sir?” Hornblower was not offended. He was flirting again, deliberately—that was his way of managing a situation with which he was not yet quite comfortable. He would be twenty-nine in July, only five years older than Pownoll. Their proximity in age troubled him; Pownoll’s proximity troubled him, for reasons he could not articulate, certainly not to Edward.  
“Of course,” said Pellew. “You’re both my boys.” Like Hornblower, he was flirting; like Hornblower, he was less comfortable than he let on. It was strange to think that his lover was so close in age to his son—and he could not help but think of it, now he saw them side by side. “You’re also competent officers— officers in my fleet.”  
“You never speak of him,” said Hornblower. Edward mentioned his children from time to time, especially the two sons who served in the Navy, but now he had met Pownoll and put a face to the name, Hornblower was struck by

how little he knew about Edward’s family. He already knew more about Captain Walton than he did about Captain Pellew.  
“The appointment had to be made quickly and I was out of town.” Pellew’s hand wriggled free to fidget with a button. “That is why I did not discuss this with you earlier.”  
“You needn’t explain,” Hornblower reiterated. An admiral did not have to defend his decisions to a mere captain, no matter how intimate the acquaintance. Pellew’s halting apology made Hornblower wonder why he was apologising: whether he expected some difficulty with his son; whether his presence might affect their relationship. He hoped Edward only felt as awkward as he did and that, in time, they would both adjust. “It was a fine meal,” he said, to change the topic.  
“Yes.” Pellew stirred from his introspection. “My sworn cure for thin pale captains.”  
Hornblower groaned quietly. “That’s two of you I have to put up with.” “Hmm?”  
Hornblower nodded to his left to indicate the adjoining cabin. “Mr Bush.”  
Pellew chuckled. “Well, you can tell Mr Bush that he has his admiral quite confounded: he has the whitest sun-tan I’ve ever seen.”  
“I think what you see is two months out of service.” Hornblower laughed quietly. “But be quiet or he’ll hear.”  
“Yes, that’s something to bear in mind.” While they talked, they could hear the men in the wardroom playing cards; anyone in an adjoining cabin would have been able to hear the sound of their voices, if not their words, over the creaks and groans of the ship.  
“Yes.” Hornblower caught Edward’s hand again. He wanted to kiss him but he couldn’t; not there, in his tiny cabin, with his officers just outside the door.  
“In which case, I had better say good night,” Pellew whispered. “But you make it very hard, Horatio.”  
Hornblower smiled. “I can’t apologise.”  
They held each other’s eyes a moment longer. Then Pellew got up and said in a louder voice, “We make sail on the morning tide. Good night, Hornblower.”  
“Good night, sir.”

“That’s Madeira now, sir,” said Bush, squinting to larboard where the island had appeared as a faint grey shadow on the horizon.  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. “Mr Orrock, signal ‘all ships alter course’.” “Aye sir.”  
The little fleet had enjoyed a quick passage down the Channel, across the Bay of Biscay and south with the Canary current along the coast of Portugal and North Africa. The route Pellew had planned now required a slight change of

course to avoid the area off the African coast that was notorious for calms and cross the equator on the Brazilian side of the Atlantic.  
“Hotspur and the Pig acknowledge, sir,” Orrock reported. ‘Pig’ was a nickname for Pygmalion, adopted even before the fleet set sail. Hornblower thought it lacked the elegance of the classical name, but it was undoubtedly easier  
for the men to say.  
“Very good. Mr Prowse, lay us on our new course.” “Aye sir.”  
Hornblower’s order was relayed and Hyacinth turned gracefully; within a  
minute, he could trace the turn in her wake. The sloops followed, as planned, once they sighted the island. It was an easy course change, with a favourable wind and little for the captain to do but enjoy the clear crisp air and swift straight sailing. The canvas was full and Hyacinth was making good speed on her new course. Hornblower was quietly excited to have command of a fast frigate and he could not help wondering how fast she might go if pushed: with trade winds and favourable currents helping her, she was yet to be truly tested.  
“Mr Bush, get a man on the log line.”  
“Aye sir.” Bush despatched Midshipman Clyde and young Sommers, who had never heaved the log in his life before this voyage and could use the extra experience. “Making good speed, sir,” Bush added; anyone could tell that by looking over the side.  
“Yes—but we may have to reef if we start to lose the sloops.” Hornblower looked aft but Hotspur and Pygmalion were keeping pace for the time being.  
Then he started down the companionway. He could hear the rope running out astern. He made a wager with himself that his ship was making ten or eleven knots, but he did not wait to hear the answer. He would check with Bush afterwards.  
Hornblower knocked on Pellew’s door and heard “Enter”. Inside, Pellew was standing by the stern windows, watching the white water thrown up in the ship’s wake.  
“Informing you, sir, that we’ve changed course.”  
“I can see that.” Pellew turned from the window. “A neat job.” He smiled; beyond him, Hornblower could see the two sloops had maintained formation through the turn. The drills through which all three captains had put their crews during the first week of the voyage were paying dividends now. “So, straight on to the Line. We will be fortunate if this wind holds.”  
“I hope so, sir.”  
“One advantage, I suppose, of leaving so early in the year.” As he spoke, Pellew wandered over to the table, where a chart was spread out, showing the change of course just completed; the angle was only slight but it would take Hyacinth most of the way to the Americas by the time she crossed the equator. “Hmm.” Pellew tapped the distinctive shape of New Holland. “We’re leaving at

the end of one winter and should arrive just in time for another. I’ve never seen a southern winter.”  
“I imagine it’s not much different to a northern winter, sir,” said Hornblower, with just a sliver of a smile. “Only milder.” Port Jackson was almost twenty degrees nearer the equator than London.  
Pellew smiled too. “Nonetheless, I think you were right when you said this expedition will be an experience, for all of us.”  
“Captain Walton said the same thing before we left port—he hasn’t crossed the equator before.”  
“Hasn’t he? Well, we’ll have to throw him overboard, won’t we!” Hornblower laughed quietly. “Yes sir.” It was a tradition, amongst sailors,  
to send any man who had never crossed the line into the ocean at the equator. When the time had come three years earlier, somewhere south-east of Guiana, Hornblower had avoided the indignity of being thrown into the sea by jumping willingly from the decks of the Retribution.  
“And my son can join him,” Pellew added. “Has he not crossed before?”  
“He has not,” said Pellew, with relish.  
Hornblower smiled again. He had been worried that Pownoll Pellew’s addition to the fleet would prove uncomfortable but, so far at least, Pygmalion’s captain might have been any competent officer, keeping his ship neatly on course. Hornblower had not seen him since the dinner in Portsmouth and his presence, a little way off Hyacinth’s starboard quarter, had not impinged at all upon Hornblower’s relationship with his father. “In that case, when the time comes…”  
“Yes,” said Pellew. They exchanged a conspiratorial look. “But now, if you’ll excuse me sir?”  
“Of course. But, Hornblower—” “—Yes sir?”  
“I was wondering if you might dine with me here tonight.” Pellew locked his gaze on the younger man’s. “Just yourself.”  
Hornblower’s eyes smiled. “Of course.”

Having spent almost the entire day on deck, as he tended to do even when his presence was not required, Hornblower found his curly hair knotted into a terrible salty tangle. He did his best to comb it out and tied a neat bow. He was striving, almost unconsciously, to look well for his dinner with Edward. Then he shaved for the second time that day, so that his skin was perfectly smooth, put on his jacket, and went out into the wardroom.  
“Good evening, sir,” said Bush, who was sitting with Martin and a plate each of stewed beef and beans. “Are you joining us tonight?”  
Hornblower had eaten with his officers most evenings since coming aboard, but this time he shook his head. “I’m dining with the admiral.”

“That should be pleasant, sir,” said Bush; Martin could only nod as he struggled, shamefaced, with an over-large mouthful. Like Bush, Lieutenant Martin was a quiet man of Spartan taste who did all that was expected of him on-deck and nothing unexpected off. Hornblower was not surprised to find the two lieutenants often together in their free time, though he could not quite imagine what they talked about, for neither seemed to talk much at all. Perhaps he was being unkind to Bush, who was his closest living friend, second only to Edward, but he was glad Bush had found a friend aboard. It was reassuring to know he had someone to talk to while captain and admiral dined alone.  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower, smiling, “but I won’t interrupt your meal.” “Not at all, sir.”  
“Still, I’d best not keep the admiral waiting.”  
In the great cabin, Hornblower found two places set and a glass of wine put into his hand as soon as he walked through the door.  
“Good evening, captain,” said Pellew. “You’re looking well—a bit of sun, I suspect.”  
Pellew did not touch him but Hornblower could feel his eyes upon him, inspecting him. He was a little flushed, he realised—he could feel the heat in his cheeks—but he could not say whether that was the effect of the sun or the wind or of Edward’s burning gaze. Perhaps it was the anticipation. “I was on deck most of the day.”  
“Mm—and doing a good job, too. Our progress has been better than I had hoped.”  
“Which perhaps means greater setbacks later on.”  
Pellew frowned. “Why this pessimism, Hornblower? It seems to me that fortune has always favoured you.”  
“I think fortune, like all superstitions, depends on one’s perspective.” Hornblower could think of many times when luck had been on his side but he could also think of times when he had not been so lucky. He reminded himself that Pellew was only making conversation.  
“Pragmatic as always,” he said, with a hint of approbation. “Come now, drink your wine—in my experience, liquor can always cure a case of pragmatism.”  
Hornblower raised his eyebrows. “Are you preparing me for something,

sir?”

Pellew looked all innocence. “Not unless you mean that I’m preparing

your palate for a fine meal.”  
“What about that rigorous rationing you mentioned, sir?”  
“Ah, I did say fine, Hornblower, not necessarily large—but let us assume, for today, that my chickens laid double.”  
Hornblower laughed quietly and wondered whether they would be having eggs. “Very well, sir.”  
Pellew laughed too. “Fortune on my side, indeed.”

They sat down to a rich meal, prepared specially by the admiral’s steward, while Pellew ensured that Hornblower’s glass never went empty: claret with dinner and brandy with pudding.  
“Are we celebrating something?” Hornblower asked as he scraped up the last of the sticky sauce served with the boiled pudding.  
“Our progress so far,” said Pellew. “How many knots, did you say?” “Twelve, for a time. It could be more, should the need arise.” “Maybe so but I think we’d leave the fleet behind.”  
“Of course.”  
“Fleet.” Pellew shook his head slowly; it seemed ridiculous to call three ships a fleet but he was, strictly speaking, commander-in-chief. His enemies had allowed him that empty honour. “So far they’ve held position well.” Pellew sipped his wine; he was determined not to let Lord Melville ruin his evening as well as his political prospects, so he pushed the slight out of mind. “I don’t think my boy will stray too far. I have him under my eye.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. When he arrived, they had watched the sloops shadow Hyacinth in the purple dusk. But now the sun had set and the windows were filled with reflected candle light, they watched each other instead.  
“So, a toast to twelve knots!” Pellew raised his glass. “And to the success of this voyage.” They both drank—but Hornblower swallowed abruptly when he felt a hand on his knee beneath the table. “There,” Pellew whispered, “that should satisfy any man with a mind to listen at the skylight.”  
Hornblower took a moment to realise that Edward was speaking of alibis, for it had not occurred to him that anyone might listen. “Do you think they can hear what we’re saying?”  
“I don’t know,” Pellew replied, not whispering now but speaking quietly. “We would have to experiment—or find some way to keep that hatch of yours battened.” Hornblower looked scandalised but Pellew continued before he could speak, “You know what I mean, Horatio.”  
Hornblower squirmed, embarrassed. He knew exactly what Edward was talking about: he could be surprisingly noisy at times.  
Now Pellew sat back, taking his hand from Hornblower’s knee. “I do not think anyone can hear.” He cast his eyes aft. “Nor can anyone see, unless the officer of the watch back there is very bored indeed.” Pellew smiled at the thought. “But, to be certain, perhaps we might retire?”  
Hornblower began to nod, faltering only slightly when he felt Edward’s hand on his knee once more. Edward was being rather forward, he thought, and yet he wasn’t, for they had both begun the evening with the same intention.  
They sat silently while Merrick cleared the table but they shared a salacious look when his back was turned and a broad grin when he was gone. They might have been two naughty schoolboys, Hornblower thought. He struggled to keep himself from snickering when Merrick returned for the wine glasses and gravy boat.

added.

“Will there be any thing else, sir?”  
“No thank you Merrick,” said Pellew. “I’ll put myself to bed tonight.” “Yes sir.” The steward retreat again with his tray.  
“Captain Hornblower and I may be detained with business,” Pellew

“Yes sir,” Merrick said, dour as ever, and closed the door behind him.

There was no need for Pellew to explain himself to his steward; he did so only for Hornblower’s peace of mind. Hornblower had always been nervous carrying on their affair in the close quarters of a ship and this was the first time they had done so on Hyacinth.  
At last they were alone and not likely to be disturbed until morning. “Business?” said Hornblower.  
“Yes.” Pellew sprang from his seat and took Hornblower by the shoulders.  
He was fifty-two but he could be remarkably agile when he wanted to be; Hornblower knew the curmudgeonly commander-in-chief was no more than a character.  
He was surprised, at first, but Hornblower began to relax as Pellew rubbed his shoulders in slow firm circles. He leaned his head back, luxuriating in Edward’s shrewd touch. With his neck stretched back, his nose reached almost to Edward’s chin. “What kind of business did you have in mind?”  
“Very important business,” said Pellew. “There is another experiment I thought we might perform.”  
“What is that?” Hornblower reached behind the chair to grasp Edward’s left knee.  
“Fifth-rates versus third-rates. I want to demonstrate that whatever one can do on a ship-of-the-line, one can do on a—”  
Hornblower slipped out of his seat and sealed lips before Pellew could say the word ‘frigate’. “You’re forgetting we already performed that experiment,” he murmured, very close. Then he kissed him again. “The Indy, remember?”  
Pellew made a low moaning sound that showed just how well he remembered. “How could I forget?” he told the young man who had been in his arms a moment before and now had him in his. “Though I still can’t quite believe it.”  
“I’m here now,” said Hornblower, his words tickling Edward’s lips.  
“And I am the luckiest man in the world.” That piece of good fortune was no illusion, Pellew thought, and kissed Hornblower again. He had forgotten about the imaginary officer on the deck of the Hotspur; at any rate, they would be in bed before the man had a chance to focus his telescope.  
Hornblower shed his shoes and coat as quickly as he could in the cramped sleeping cabin. “This is just like the Indy,” he mused as Pellew latched the door behind them.

“Mm.” Pellew watched Hornblower’s waistcoat fall to the floor, then his neckcloth, then one stockinged foot kick both under the cot. He looked the young man up and down. “What do you think you’re doing, sir?”  
For one moment, Hornblower was fooled by his lover’s bluff. A startled look flitted across his features and he clutched his shirt around him. Pellew was still fully clothed—but Hornblower soon saw he was grinning. He rolled his eyes. “Why do you always tease me?”  
Edward enfolded him in his arms. “Why do you always take me seriously?”  
They looked into each others eyes. Hornblower fought hard to maintain his stubborn frown but he soon gave in and they kissed.  
“Come Horatio, help me with this darn coat.” Pellew turned around, offering his shoulders with their heavy gold epaulettes. “There’s hardly elbow room in here.”  
Hornblower laughed and helped him to undress. A minute later he was lying on his back on Pellew’s cot, pulling the blanket over his bare body while his companion wobbled unabashedly about the tiny cabin, tugging at his stocking. “Where are you?” said Hornblower, grinning.  
At last the stocking was free. Pellew tossed it disdainfully over his shoulder. “I’m here, Horatio.” He came to the side of the cot and looked down at Hornblower; his young skin almost glowed in the candlelight. “Now, how did we used to do this?”  
Hornblower frowned thoughtfully. “As I recall, I would lie upon your cot and you would squash me.”  
Pellew frowned too. “I don’t want to squash you, my love.”  
“Well, only a little.” Hornblower rolled over, as far as possible without capsising the cot. “Come here.”  
“If you say so.” With a grunt, Pellew eased himself in alongside Hornblower. The suspending ropes strained noisily and the two men exchanged a look. “Pray God it holds!”  
“Mm.” Hornblower leaned across to kiss Edward’s forehead. “That would be difficult to explain.” He kissed each eyebrow, the end of his nose, and finally his lips. “What was that ‘business’, again?”  
“Very important,” Pellew chuckled, and slid one hand up Horatio’s thigh.

“Verdict, captain?” Pellew asked, half an hour later, as they both lay sated and sticky on the cot.  
“Hmm?” Hornblower turned slightly. “Oh… only a bruise or two.” He rubbed the place where his head had hit the cabin wall. At least the cot had held up under their exertions.  
“I apologise.” Pellew kissed the spot.  
“Better now,” Hornblower sighed sleepily. He sounded almost like a child, he thought; he had allowed himself to forget all his cares as captain of a frigate—

to forget that he was anything besides Edward’s lover—and give himself entirely to loving hands and lips. He returned the kiss, languorous and lingering. “Four months doesn’t sound so long.”  
While Hornblower nestled in and prepared, perhaps, to sleep, his words roused Pellew. “I think you’ll find it is, Horatio.” He sat up a little so he could look into the younger man’s eyes. The love he found there and the lazy sweep of long black lashes almost overpowered all serious thought, but Pellew forced himself to focus. “Horatio, our journey has only just begun. It will be weeks before we cross the equator, weeks to the Cape, months before we reach our destination—and God only knows how long we might remain there.”  
“I know,” said Hornblower. He had known all that when he accepted the command. “I meant that, with you here, the months will not seem so long.” He smiled whimsically. “Not long enough.”  
“And I mean that, with me here, you might find it seems longer.” Hornblower’s brow creased. “Why should I think that?”  
“You flatter me, you do.” Pellew shook his head. He was deeply moved by Horatio’s affection but his own affection made him determined that Horatio should not delude himself. “Four months is a long time, Horatio, and that is just the beginning.”  
“We were together much longer on the Indy.”  
“Yes, but never so long without seeing another ship—”  
“—And perhaps we’ll meet the Spanish fleet tomorrow.” Hornblower knew what Edward was trying to say but he was too content and too much in love to allow such thoughts to intrude on a joyous evening. “Or pirates, perhaps.”  
“Perhaps,” said Pellew. He began to stroke Hornblower’s hair, slowly and soothingly, as though he were a child; Horatio reminded him of a petulant child sometimes. “I am simply trying to say…” Pellew sighed; he knew what he wanted to say but could not find the words. “We might sail across whole oceans without changing course once, without seeing another ship, without a word from home.  
You might find yourself drinking stinking green water, reading every book in your chest a dozen times over, and gnawing on the taffrail in desperation.” He smiled but his meaning was serious. “Four months, Horatio—four months if we’re very lucky. I do not expect anyone to endure my company for that long without—”  
“—I understand.” Hornblower sighed. Edward was worried he would weary of him over those four months; that too much time together might be as difficult as time apart. Now he understood what was troubling him, Hornblower would not let him believe it. He found Edward’s hand and kissed it. “Those are the ills of a long voyage, not you,” he said firmly. “What I’m trying to say is that I will not endure these months any the poorer for your presence—quite the opposite, I think. There’s more to do together than we can do alone.”  
Pellew squeezed his hand. “I’ve certainly endured this night better for your company.”

“Then may it be a model for many nights to come.” They both laughed and kissed again.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir.” Bush gestured with his head to attract his captain’s attention.  
Hornblower joined him by the larboard companion, frowning slightly. It was unlike Bush to be furtive; if he had something to say, he would approach politely and say it.  
“What is it, Mr Bush?” Hornblower followed his first lieutenant’s gaze to where the hands were at work washing down the gun deck. They seemed cheerful enough about their duties.  
“Listen, sir,” Bush said quietly. “You asked how the men were taking to the voyage—”  
Hornblower nodded to quieten Bush, so he could concentrate on the voices below.  
“Cheer up, mate,” one seaman was telling another, as he bent over his holystone, “you’ll be all right once we get to Rio.” The man made a clucking noise in his cheek and winked. “Worth the wait, I can tell you.”  
“If the captain lets us ashore,” said another man; Hornblower recalled his name was Williams. “The way he’s pushing this ship, I don’t reckon we’ll stay long.”  
“How long d’ye need?” the first man replied with a bawdy laugh. There could be no doubt of what they were talking about, but it was not the men’s ribald talk that had caught Bush’s attention, nor Hornblower’s.  
He turned aside with Bush, so there could be no chance of the hands hearing them. “You think they’re restless?”  
“No more than usual,” said Bush. They had been at sea only a month; no time at all for an experienced seaman. “Spirits seem to be high, sir.”  
“But they expect to see a port.” Hornblower stopped to listen again. He did not expect any trouble from his men but he was somewhat troubled by the fact that they expected to stop at Rio. He was lucky to have a good core of hands who had served previously with him or Pellew and a number of volunteers who had joined Hyacinth on the strength of his and Pellew’s reputations. But those men would be expecting the kind of adventures that had earned those reputations and—perhaps most importantly—prize money. Hornblower could not be completely sure how their loyalty would endure the long voyage to New Holland, especially if the French never appeared.

“How long’s it take to get to Rio?” the youngest of the gathered men was asking.  
“With this wind? Couldn’t rightly say,” said Williams. “Last time I put in was with the Company—it weren’t long after that I was pressed and that was a long time ago. But I’ve never seen a puff like this so close to the Line—I remember once we ‘ad a week of calms at the Tropic of Capricorn.”  
“You could say we’ve ‘ad a week of calms already,” another man interrupted. It was Kerridge, whom Bush had praised for his accuracy and efficiency in the last gun drill, only to have to caution him for his tardiness in exercising the headsails that same afternoon—and that was not the first time Kerridge had earned stern words from Bush. Hornblower frowned; if there was trouble from his crew, it was men like Kerridge who would have to be watched.  
“Wha’?” said the young seaman, his freckled nose wrinkling ridiculously. “Well, the cap’n ain’t changed course for a week,” Kerridge explained.  
“An’ the scenery ain’t changed much either.” He looked around himself for effect. With a strong nor’-easter behind her, the ship was making good speed, but the blue horizon was unbroken as far as the eye could see and had been that way since Madeira passed out of sight. “He’s fixed on gettin’ somewhere fast, an’ I figure I know where.”  
Hornblower leaned a little further over the companion rail. The crew did not know whither they were bound, at least not officially, and he was interested to hear Kerridge’s view on the matter. Kerridge was clever enough—he could read, too—and it was not impossible he had heard something, somewhere.  
“If we was goin’ to the West Indies, we’d‘ve turned west a’ready,” another man observed. From Hornblower’s vantage point, his slouching shoulders signalled resignation; presumably this was the fellow the others had tried to tempt with their talk of Rio.  
“It’s Africa, I reckon,” said Williams. “Retaking the Cape—now that’ll put a bit of Dutch gold in our pockets!”  
Kerridge shook his head. “Not the Cape. Not the West Indies.” He ceased scrubbing for a moment and leaned authoritatively on his holystone. “The admiral’s posted to the East Indies. It’ll be India for sure.”  
Grinning, Williams clapped him on the shoulder. “Then Indian gold’ll do me fine!”  
The others laughed and Kerridge smirked; whether at his own superior knowledge or the prospect of prize money, Hornblower could not tell. While he was better informed than his companions, however, Kerridge too was ignorant of their true destination.  
“The Cape,” Hornblower mouthed. “Rio, India.” Once again he was reminded of how many men had signed up on the strength of a reputation for fighting battles and winning them. They could not have dreamed they were bound for England’s most remote penal colony, with only a vague prospect of action and still less of prize money. It sometimes seemed strange to Hornblower

that a crew could be expected to sail a ship without knowing where they were going and now, as he saw them daydream of dark-skinned women and Dutch gold, Hornblower felt he had duped three hundred good seamen. With a French admiral in the East Indies and the Cape hotly contested, his men had no chance of guessing their true destination, at least not until he failed to turn north in the Indian Ocean. But Hornblower was not at liberty to enlighten them: it was essential to the safety of the colonies (so the orders read) that the French remain ignorant of Pellew’s mission, and that meant that the men must remain ignorant until the last practicable moment. Moreover, the expectation of a protracted and unprofitable voyage would invite disaffection. Hornblower had no choice but to ignore the men’s talk. After all, the wind was fair, the ship’s stores were well- stocked, and there was work enough to keep the men busy. For the time being, spirits were high; as for six, twelve or eighteen months’ time, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.  
“Come on lads, get to work,” came a more familiar voice from the gun deck. It was Matthews, having seen the men smiling and laughing. Men like Matthews were invaluable, Hornblower thought; Matthews knew as little as the others of where Hyacinth was headed, but he knew not to let men daydream too long.  
He would speak to Matthews, Hornblower decided, and have him arrange some entertainment for the crew: music, dancing, prizes; the little things that took men’s minds off bigger questions. In the meantime, he turned back to his first lieutenant. “Thank you, Mr Bush.” He cast his gaze up at the white canvas, gleaming beneath the bright blue sky. It was a fine day and almost uncomfortably warm. “I have a plan,” he added, his eyes crinkling just slightly. Bush could not tell whether he was squinting or smiling.  
“Sir?” Bush knew that a slight adjustment would take Hyacinth to Rio in  
less than a month’s time but he could not imagine his captain changing course on account of the men’s talk.  
Hornblower did not reply. Instead he strode down to the gun deck and spoke to the man at the wash pump.  
“Oh no!” Bush grinned. He needed no more explanation than that.

When the admiral came on deck ten minutes later, he was surprised to find his flag captain frolicking naked in the salty pump spray. Pellew could hardly believe it; he had to look twice to confirm that the pale lean body and the bedraggled curls bobbing in the throbbing jets of water were indeed those with which he was so intimately familiar. “My God,” he breathed; the sight left him shivering in the steamy morning sun.  
“You’re seeing another side of Captain Hornblower, sir,” said Bush, venturing to join the admiral at the rail.  
“Both sides, I think.”

sir?”

Bush laughed quietly. “I hope you’re not regretting your choice of captain,

“Not at all, Mr Bush.” Pellew could not take his eyes off Hornblower. The hands, meanwhile, were enjoying the respite from routine. The trio

who had spoken of South America were amply distracted by their captain’s antics—just as Hornblower had intended—while the man they had sought to reassure wore a broad grin.  
“The men are enjoying the show, sir,” said Bush; he did not add that Pellew seemed to be enjoying it, too.  
“A splendid sight.” The words were out before he could check himself but, when they reached his ears, Pellew became self-conscious. He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s proof we’re in warmer waters.” He tore his eyes from the tantalising spectacle and reminded himself why he had come on deck in the first place. “Mr Bush, tell… when Captain Hornblower has…” He coughed again. “When he has finished, tell Hornblower I want all captains aboard at eight bells.”

“Good morning, captain,” Pellew said when Hornblower came to his cabin just before eight bells; just enough time for the admiral to have regained his composure. “I trust you’re quite refreshed?”  
“Yes sir,” said Hornblower; his hair was still damp from his shower, but he was shaved and dressed and once more the picture of the proper flag captain. “Mr Bush told me you made a brief appearance on deck.”  
“Well, what was I to do? A post-captain gallivanting naked on the gun deck, disrupting the crew with his antics—”  
“Sir, I—”  
“It’s all right.” Pellew shook his head slowly. Surely Hornblower had learned to tell when he was teasing, though he secretly hoped the boy would always be that little bit naïve. “A fine sight to behold,” he said, giving Hornblower the assurance he needed. Then he went to the window and opened the louvres. It was only eight o’clock but the day outside was hot already. “I was remarking to Mr Bush upon this tropical weather.”  
“The water was pleasant.” “Mm. But the breeze is brisk.”  
“As are our knots, sir.” Hornblower adopted a more formal mode at the first mention of ship’s business.  
“Indeed,” said Pellew. “I think we would be advised to take advantage of these conditions.”  
“What did you have in mind, sir?” It seemed to Hornblower that the little fleet was already making good use of the weather.  
“I am going to propose a course adjustment, since the wind is fair for the south—and God knows how long we may count on that. That is why I have signalled the other captains. However, I would like your opinion first.”

The possibility had already occurred to Hornblower and he had his reply ready. “If the wind holds up, a southerly course will be more efficient, sir, but by crossing the equator this far east we increase the chance of calms—”  
“—I know that,” Pellew interrupted, but he was not offended. “However, if we do not take advantage of this wind, we might as easily find ourselves becalmed off the coast of Brazil.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. It was not impossible for a ship to be becalmed even at Cape Horn; at the equator, the winds were not so predictable as to dictate one course when another suggested itself. In any case, Pellew—a more experienced navigator than Hornblower—seemed to have made his decision. “Do you wish to alter course, sir?”  
Pellew nodded. “For the time being, we have a favourable wind. Should that wind drop, we might turn west and still save time in the bargain.”  
“And we would still be considerably west of where Cook twice crossed.” Hornblower was not sure what course he would have adopted had the decision been his but he was satisfied with Pellew’s reasoning.  
Pellew nodded again.  
“In that case, sir, shall I signal the other ships?”  
“No. Captain Walton and Captain Pellew are coming aboard as we speak.  
I will inform them presently. But first I hope the three of you will join me for breakfast.”  
“You must be eager to see your son,” said Hornblower. He had wondered; in fact, he was surprised that Pellew had not made an invitation earlier.  
“I can bear it.” Pellew smiled. “But, after the display you put on, I’d much rather entertain you alone!”  
“Oh,” Hornblower swallowed, blushing under the heat of Edward’s eyes.  
But soon the two sloop captains arrived.  
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Pellew greeted them.  
“Sir.” Walton saluted. “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he added, making sure to include his fellow captains with his words. “It’s strange to think we’ve been in company these weeks and not set eyes on each other since Portsmouth.”  
“Yes.” Hornblower found himself smiling. He liked Walton instinctively and he admired the young man’s easy manner—even in an admiral’s presence— amid a world so often stultified by deference to rank and title. Walton was right: it was unnatural that he should scarcely know the men he would be serving with for the indefinite future and, reserved as he was, Hornblower was glad of the opportunity to get to know them better. The difficulty was that Captain Pellew seemed even more reserved than himself and it occurred to Hornblower that two such reserved persons might serve together for months on end without ever really knowing each other, like two inert elements coexisting without reacting. They had not so much as made eye contact since Captain Pellew walked into the great cabin. Hornblower looked at him and he replied with a nod, but his eyes were

like an imperfect painting; they seemed to look without seeing and could never quite be caught.  
“Good morning,” Pownoll said to his father; presumably that was as personal a greeting as he was prepared to attempt with two other captains present. But his father was playing the admiral and keen to reveal his plan.  
He stood over the dining table, where the chart was laid out. “In short, gentlemen, I have decided on a change of course, to take advantage of these winds. We will sail south and rejoin our original course here.” Pellew gestured roughly at a point on the twentieth parallel. “If this wind holds, we might save a week’s sailing.”  
“Aye aye sir,” said Walton. He seemed surprised by the simplicity of the plan; no doubt he had expected a meeting with the admiral to mean something more complex than a mere change of course.  
The other captains nodded.  
“Good,” said Pellew. “I’ll supply you with new bearings before you leave.” He pushed the chart aside. “That was simple, wasn’t it? But, to make your trouble worthwhile, perhaps you will join me for breakfast before returning to your ships.” He looked at Walton as he added, “Something to remind us that we’re all part of the same fleet.”  
“That would be most pleasant, sir,” Walton chirped. Meanwhile Pellew’s steward appeared and began to clear the table.  
Captain Pellew, however, was frowning. “Sir,” he said, “might I see that chart?” He was looking at a map of New Holland, revealed as Merrick rolled up another. He pulled it towards him and traced out the south-east coast of the continent with his forefinger. “My charts don’t show this. In one this coast is missing, in one it’s only conjecture.” He looked at his father. “I have the most recent versions, sir, I made sure of it.”  
Pellew nodded. “I’m sure—and they are indeed incomplete. If Captain Flinders had not been detained, the Admiralty would have a more complete map, but, as things stand, your charts represent the state of hydrography—English hydrography, that is.” Pellew tapped the chart in question. “This map is French— not a published edition, not yet, but a copy of a chart compiled in Paris from the work of Captain Baudin’s expedition and subsequently…” He hesitated over his choice of words. “… Brought to our attention.”  
Captain Pellew and Captain Walton leaned over the table. This was the first they had heard of the intercepted chart. On closer inspection, it was clearly a hand-drawn copy, labelled in French.  
“For that reason, it was thought not prudent to distribute this chart while in port,” Pellew explained. “However, copies have been prepared for you. I had planned to discuss this at a later time but you might as well take them now.”  
“Thank you, sir,” said Pownoll.  
“It’s reassuring to know we won’t be sailing into entirely uncharted waters, sir,” Walton quipped.

“But the fact that the French map is more complete than ours may say something about their ambition,” Pellew replied.  
Meanwhile his son had unrolled the larger chart to compare the two representations of the continent. The official Admiralty chart of the Indian Ocean, published two years earlier, left the south coast of New Holland entirely blank from its centre point to Port Phillip in the east. The French chart showed that coast in detail and labelled it Terre Napoléon. At last Pownoll Pellew reacted to something: his elusive eyes widened as he read those words.  
“Such a vast area,” Walton said to Hornblower. “Strange to think that you could fit the whole of Europe into one continent, yet a century ago we weren’t even sure it existed!”  
Hornblower nodded. “Another possible explanation for the French interest in it.”  
“I heard it was empty,” said Captain Pellew. “Nobody knows,” said Hornblower.  
For a minute, the three captains stood shoulder to shoulder scrutinising the maps, not like navigators but like curious schoolboys exploring an atlas for the first time. Merrick hovered with cloth and cutlery, waiting to lay the table, but they paid him no mind. For the moment they were more interested in their destination than in breakfast.  
“There are no major rivers marked,” Hornblower noted. That told them something, if not about the continent then about the state of exploration.  
“Perhaps we’re yet to find them,” said Captain Pellew. At last he met Hornblower’s eyes. “I hardly think the French would take such interest in a great desert.”  
Pellew had been watching the three captains; he was interested to see Hornblower and Pownoll talking. Now he joined the discussion. “I can tell you nothing of the interior. From what I’ve heard, not even the natives know what’s out there. But Sir Joseph Banks believes the coastal regions hold great promise— and he is the closest we have to an expert on the place.” Pellew laughed. “I think Sir Joseph believes he’s an expert on everything.”  
Hornblower nodded; he had seen first hand the extent of Banks’ knowledge and enthusiasm.  
“On the other hand, it might simply be our flag that’s ruffled Boney’s feathers,” Pellew said disdainfully. Then he caught Merrick’s eye. “But enough of that. I think it’s time for breakfast.”

The three captains saw each other again two days later. After forty-eight hours on their new course, the three ships were nigh on the equator and most of the men had gathered on deck for the moment, as near as it could be reckoned, when the fleet would cross the line.  
“That’s noon sir,” one of the midshipmen called from Hyacinth’s  
forecastle.

“And the mast has no shadow,” cried another.  
“We’re across, sir,” Prowse remarked to Hornblower, as they stood on the quarterdeck. Behind them, they could hear Bush’s chalk squeak as he noted the event in the ship’s log.  
“Thank you for your work getting us here so quickly, Mr Prowse,” said Hornblower. “Now, if you would be so good as to back the topsails?”  
Prowse’s mouth twitched in a smile at the compliment. “Aye sir.” The hands manned the braces and the frigate slowed almost to a standstill; the sloops followed suit. Meanwhile the Captain of Marines arranged his men along the waist rail and looked to Hornblower for his order.  
“Very well, sergeant!”  
The round of musket shot that rang out was followed almost immediately by the splashes of men dropping into the water—some leaping eagerly, others less willing, some wearing rope harnesses because they could not swim.  
“Oh no sir, no!” Lieutenant Martin laughed despite himself as Bush and White—both of whom had the good fortune to have crossed before—drove him towards the side.  
“Welcome to the court of Neptune!” Bush laughed. A moment later,  
Hyacinth’s second lieutenant was swimming with the men.  
“What chaos, sir!” Bush grinned as he and Hornblower watched the writhing bodies in the water. Some were enjoying a refreshing swim; others were clawing their way back aboard as quickly as they could.  
“Better than a couple of dozen drownings, sir,” Bush agreed. He looked at Martin and laughed: Martin could swim but, to judge by his red face and flailing limbs, not as well as he had claimed. He seemed very relieved to be clambering back over Hyacinth’s tumblehome.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. “Though I though you might be a little sympathetic, Mr Bush.” Hornblower did not need to remind Bush that he could not swim at all. Instead he addressed his bedraggled third lieutenant, who had returned dripping wet to the quarterdeck. “All right Mr Martin, get below and change your clothes.”  
“Thank you sir.”  
“And what’s this?” said Hornblower, training his telescope on Pygmalion, where a similar ceremony was taking place.  
“Admiral Pellew won’t be pleased to see that, sir!” said Bush.  
Hornblower recognised Captain Pellew, casting off his cocked hat just in time to save it from the drenching which he could not avoid himself. Hornblower laughed. “To the contrary, William—I think he’ll be delighted.”  
Pellew appeared on deck just in time to see his son hauling himself out of the water. Sure enough, he was grinning. “Three cheers to the officers of Pygmalion!” he declared. He had been watching from the stern gallery.  
“And there’s Captain Walton,” said Hornblower, spotting a figure swimming alongside Hotspur, evidently in no great hurry to get out of the water.

Hornblower envied him: it was a hot day and he would have appreciated the excuse for a swim, though preferably not in quite so many clothes. He was about to propose it to Pellew when he found him frowning.  
“I hope those men aren’t drowning.” He was looking the other way, into the water off Hyacinth’s bows.  
When Hornblower followed his gaze, he frowned too. One of the men in the water was shouting and waving madly. “What’s he saying?” Hornblower could not make out the words over the general clamour of an excited crew; he looked to Pellew and Bush but they knew as little as he.  
“Silence!” Bush roared and the whole ship immediately hushed. Now they could hear the man in the water.  
“Sail, sir!” he was shouting. “A sail, sir. Sir! A sail!”  
One glance aft immediately confirmed what the man was shouting about.  
A white shape had appeared on the horizon. It was unquestionably a ship, headed east of south, straight for Pellew’s fleet.  
“Damn it, she’s hull-up already and we didn’t see her,” Hornblower muttered, cursing his own inattention as much as his men’s. “What is she?” Every officer on the deck raised his telescope.  
“I can’t say, sir,” said Bush. The ship was heading directly toward them, so only her prow and the great cloud of her canvass were visible; not enough to identify her.  
Again Hornblower cursed the silly carry-on that he had allowed to distract him from his duty. That ship should have been spotted the moment she appeared on the horizon; as it was, he could not even say which direction she had been coming from, since she had obviously altered course on seeing Hyacinth. “Get those men out of the water,” he snapped. “Mr Orrock—go aloft and see what you make of her.”  
“Aye sir.”  
“Could be a big Indiaman, sir,” Bush suggested.  
Hornblower reserved his opinion. It was possible, but why would a merchant ship intercept their course? The merchant captain’s philosophy was to keep well clear of everyone, unless his ship was in distress. Even a friendly ship could be a threat to an Indiaman if she were short of crew. The change of course would be better explained if the ship were another Royal Navy vessel seeking to make contact or simply to identify Pellew’s fleet, but there had been no signal and they certainly did not expect to see another British ship in the middle of the Atlantic. The third possibility—that they were being pursued by an enemy— seemed still less probable: as far as Hornblower could see, the other ship could not be more than a small frigate; too small to take on forty-gun Hyacinth with two sloops in company. The possibility became more plausible, however, with Orrock’s report from the fighting top.  
“I think there’s two of them, sir!”

Hornblower looked again, but the white mass in his glass refused to resolve into masts and yards; nor could Bush say one way or the other. Gritting his teeth, Hornblower grasped the ratlines and climbed aloft to look for himself. Orrock was right: with the extra elevation and the distance closed a little he could see more canvas than one ship could possibly carry. There could even be three ships, sailing in a line so they were barely visible from Hyacinth’s vantage point, like an arrow viewed end-on. That altered the equation considerably. While the strange ships might yet be allies, neutrals or merchants, Hornblower’s instinct told him they were enemy ships. Whatever they were, he felt like a fool sitting hove-to and virtually blind while they dashed downwind towards him. “Damn,” he muttered as he climbed down again; this time he hardly noticed the drop or the dizzying sway of the shrouds that had troubled him so often in the past. He was fixated on the unidentified ships.  
So was Pellew. “Yes?” he said, before Hornblower had finished his descent.  
“Two ships, sir—perhaps three.” “Bearing?”  
“Nor’-west about twelve miles,” said Hornblower. He glanced at Bush who agreed with a nod.  
Evidently Pellew had already reached the same estimate, for he was ready with orders. “Signal Hotspur,” he said to Midshipman Sommers, who was standing by the signal locker. “‘Take new station west two miles and report’.”  
“Aye sir.”  
Soon the bunting was running up the masthead. Hornblower stood beside Pellew and together they watched the sloop work her way west. Hornblower was struck by the sight of his old ship separated from the fleet like that: she looked like a pawn in some elaborate chess manoeuvre, only far more precious.  
“I trust Captain Walton to work to windward if necessary,” Pellew explained, as though he had read his mind.  
Hornblower nodded. He understood what Pellew was trying to do: he suspected the strange ships were a threat so he was sending Hotspur to count their guns. Two miles ought to provide a sufficiently wide angle without taking the sloop so far away that she could not rejoin the flagship before the other ships came in firing range. Hotspur was weatherly enough to get herself out of danger, while Pellew could not afford to put the fleet any further downwind of the approaching ships. If there was to be a battle, the enemy would have the weather gauge, and Pellew could only counterbalance that by keeping as far east as possible.  
“Surely not ours,” Pellew said privately. Hornblower nodded again.  
“And, until we know who they are, we’ll play their game: I want  
Pygmalion out of sight as long as possible.” Pellew picked an idle officer from the

group on the quarterdeck. “Mr White, signal Pygmalion but have the flags hung over the larboard bow: ‘maintain position to leeward of flagship’.”  
“Aye sir,” said White. He took Clyde to assist him, since Sommers was standing by for Hotspur’s report. Both midshipmen looked a little damp, Hornblower noticed; there had not been time for them to change since their earlier swim.  
Soon the signal was made and Pygmalion acknowledged, in similar fashion, with flags draped over the gunwale. Her captain must have guessed what was going on.  
For the next twenty minutes, there was nothing to do but wait and speculate. When the signal did come from Hotspur, it was just as Hornblower had expected.  
“‘Confirm three ships’, sir,” Sommers announced. “‘Ship of war, twenty- eight guns’.” There was a delay while the next set of signal flags was readied, raised and read. “‘Twenty-two’, ‘sixteen’—they must be the other ships, sir.”  
Hornblower glanced at Pellew, whose expression betrayed absolutely no reaction to the news. He was waiting on the next part of the message, which was slow in coming since several words had to be spelled out.  
“‘Corvettes’, sir,” Sommers finished.  
“French corvettes,” said Pellew. He did not sound at all surprised; if anything he sounded haughty. If three corvettes with sixty-six guns had any chance against a forty-gun frigate and a twenty-gun sloop-of-war, they certainly had none against a frigate and two sloops, with or without the advantage of the wind. Even the leading corvette could not have carried anything above eighteen- pounders; the frigate’s twenty-four-pound long guns could rake her before she even came in range. From the quartermaster to the commander-in-chief, every man on the quarterdeck knew it from the moment Sommers spoke. But the Frenchmen didn’t know; evidently they had not seen Pygmalion hidden under Hyacinth’s lee.  
“Sixty-six guns to our eighty, sir,” Bush declared, quite unnecessarily. His captain and his admiral were already turning their minds to the next question.  
The French ships could not have seen Pygmalion; that was the only conceivable  
reason why they were still closing: not even a mad French privateer would match sixty-six guns to eighty. The moment they saw they were outgunned, surely they would turn and run downwind. If he was to have any chance of taking a prize, therefore, it was imperative that Pellew keep Pygmalion hidden as long as possible. French ships were fast and he could not be confident of catching the three corvettes in a downwind chase, especially if the Frenchmen had a head start of four or five miles west.  
“Signal Pygmalion,” said Pellew, “‘maintain position to leeward’.”  
“Aye sir,” said Sommers. “Sir, Hotspur’s signalling—they’re raising French colours.”  
“Raise ours—and clear for action.”

Pellew’s words set most of the crew in motion. The white ensign appeared at Hyacinth’s mizzen, bulkheads were moved and guns manned. By the time the frigate was ready, the sloops had cleared for action and the leading French ship had closed within eight miles of Hyacinth; perhaps only five miles from Hotspur. A keen eye would be able to pick the second sloop sheltered behind the frigate’s sail array; in all likelihood the French ships would go about soon and Pellew’s would have a long chase ahead of them. The flagship was six miles west of the Frenchmen, a considerable handicap with ships so closely matched for speed and the enemy having the advantage of conditions. Pellew had to decide whether to prepare for the chase or wait in hope that the enemy would sail under his nose.  
“Captain Hornblower.” “Yes sir?”  
“All hands—” Pellew began, but Sommers interrupted. “Hotspur again, they’re opening their ports.”  
“Fancy their chances, do they?” Pellew scoffed. “The audacity!” The French ships would not come into firing range for at least another half hour. To Pellew, those open ports sounded an empty war cry that only helped to justify the decision he had already made. “All hands prepare to make sail,” he declared.  
Within seconds, the hands were pouring from the guns to man braces and halyards. “Where he goes we follow,” Pellew said to the master.  
“Aye aye sir,” said Prowse.  
“And signal Hotspur, ‘return to station’.” Still more bunting ran up to the masthead and Hotspur acknowledged. Then Pellew turned to Hornblower. “We’ll act as though we’re drawing up for battle,” he explained, perhaps as a courtesy or perhaps seeking Hornblower’s approval. “And, with any luck—”  
“—I fear not,” Hornblower interrupted. Hotspur had barely had time to tack when the leading corvette changed course. She was going about; just as Hornblower had suspected, she was running off to the south-west. “She must have seen,” he said, but Pellew did not reply. Already he was addressing Prowse, giving the order to make sail.  
For the next half hour, the ship was a flurry of activity: the royals and topgallants and studdingsails were set to give Hyacinth every possible inch of speed; the timber yawned and the taut rigging sang but Prowse swore the ship would hold together. With all canvas flying, Hotspur just held her place in front, and Pygmalion, the sleekest of the three, kept pace effortlessly. But they were no nearer the Frenchmen: with the nor’-easter behind them they were running off at almost ten knots. Pellew’s ships were gaining on them, but almost imperceptibly.  
It was as though the two groups of ships formed the base of a great triangle, Hornblower thought as he stood by the gunwale, letting the warm wind whip his face. At its apex, their paths would eventually cross, but that point was so far distant and the angle so acute that he could barely envision it. A chase like that would last for hours or more probably days; for as long as the wind blew and as long as they could keep sight of their prey. They might sail halfway to Brazil

before it was over, in theory at least. He had plenty of time to wonder where his enemy had come from and what they were doing there.  
“Calling on our friend Troubridge, perhaps,” Pellew suggested, later that afternoon, when he persuaded Hornblower below deck long enough for a late dinner. “Or coming from there,” he added, sawing vigorously at a bit of beef that was, in fact, not particularly tough. Talk of Troubridge drove Pellew to a more vigorous use of cutlery.  
Hornblower did not reply nor even seem to notice; he was too busy glowering at his wine glass, because it happened to be the first object in his line of sight and because he was berating himself for his earlier laxity, which meant he could not even say what direction the French had come from.  
Pellew read the lines on his face. “Horatio, I know what you’re thinking and you’d do well to think about something else.”  
Hornblower only hemmed in reply.  
“Look, Hornblower, if it’s your commanding officer you’re worried about, he’s less concerned by your momentary inattention on deck than the fact that you’ve paid no attention to anything he’s said in the last half hour. Hmm?”  
That roused Hornblower. “I’m sorry,” he said hastily, straightening in his seat and looking Pellew in the eye. “I was listening. But I don’t know where those ships came from.”  
“It might be Mauritius, South America, France—it might be anywhere. I don’t believe it makes much difference. Wherever they came from, those ships were looking for prizes. As it happened, they found us.”  
“Not New Holland, then?”  
“You think we might have found our foe without leaving the Atlantic?” Pellew almost laughed. “Lord Melville would not be pleased.” He still suspected the Admiralty of inflating the French threat as an excuse to send him away. “Theoretically, perhaps, but would you send three ships to invade a continent?”  
“Would you send three ships to defend one?”  
Pellew grunted and reached for his wine glass. He was offended; only then did Hornblower realise that his words sounded like a slight on the entire mission. That was not what he had intended.  
“I apologise,” he said quietly.  
“Hmm.” Pellew was looking out the window. “Not three corvettes,” he muttered. Then he drained his glass and turned back to face Hornblower. “Anyway, none of this matters if we can’t catch them.”  
Hornblower nodded. That was what had been troubling him, even more his momentary oversight. If the wind blew forever, if the sun never set, if they did not have orders to sail to Sydney without delay, they would eventually catch the three corvettes. But they had less than five hours of daylight left, not long enough to force a battle and certainly not to fight one. Then, when the sun set and they had only the light of the stars and the waning moon to sail by, the French ships could slip away in almost any direction they chose and they would

have no chance of finding them. It seemed to Hornblower that if they could not capture the corvettes by sunset—and it would be a miracle if they did—there would be little point in continuing the chase. But that was Pellew’s decision, of course. “How far do we go?” he asked quietly.  
Pellew sighed. “We’ll lose them overnight, if we’re not chasing a ship of

fools.”

“Till dark then,” Hornblower said resignedly. He was disappointed: the

three corvettes had presented an unexpected chance of action; a fair prospect of one or two prizes at least. That would be something for the men—men who could expect so little from the voyage, though they didn’t know it yet—and for Pellew as well: a victory over the French would be a victory over the politicians back in England who had conspired to give one of the nation’s greatest commanders the most barren command possible. Giving up the chase would be giving up more than prize money, but Pellew was stoic about it.  
“Is there really any point in going on?” he asked. “What chance do we have of engaging them before we lose the light?”  
“Very slim,” Hornblower said frankly. When he envisioned that impossibly acute triangle, he knew he did not need to do the sums.  
Pellew knew it, too. “Then why are we sailing west?”  
Hornblower did not answer that. There were reasons—the men’s expectations, Pellew’s pride, the unsportsmanlike taint of giving up a chase—but none of those were valid reasons for sailing west when they needed to sail east. “Shall I alter course?” he asked cautiously. He did not want to rush the decision; it might yet be better to continue the chase until the sun rose the next morning on a vacant horizon. That would not make tactical sense but it might make more sense to the men than turning back with the Frenchmen still in sight.  
Pellew sighed. “Finish your dinner first. We’ve come this far; we’re not in that much of a hurry.”

“Damn! Edward, that tickles!” Hornblower attempted to wriggle away from the whiskery kiss, but the tiny cot afforded no escape. Edward’s kisses continued to crawl up his thighs and creep over his stomach. “Edward…”  
Edward paid him no mind and continued his assault with lips scratchy from two days without a shave. The day’s events had interrupted his routine but he found there were certain advantages to going unshaven: he could make Horatio wriggle so much that the whole cot swung back and forth. After the excitement of finding the three corvettes and the frustration of abandoning the chase, he was in the mood for rough play and, for almost a quarter-hour, Horatio had struggled without avail as he rummaged in his under-arms and grazed his skin with kisses. It was the first time the admiral had been able to assert himself that day.  
“Edward, stop!” Hornblower protested, flailing with fading strength against Pellew’s bare shoulders and laughing so hard his ribs hurt, but his

assailant merely chuckled and continued the assault as gleefully as if he were a frigate captain once more, gathering up a hapless convoy. “Stop it, stop it!” Hornblower gasped, almost gagging now, but there was no respite. Despite his protests he was probably enjoying himself, Pellew reasoned, and proceeded to kiss him in the most sensitive place of all.  
As soon as he realised what was happening, Hornblower rolled out of the cot and crouched on the floor, leaning against the wall. He felt hot and itchy all over; his skin tingled where Edward had tickled him and sweat slicked his entire body. They had both peaked already and the equatorial nights were stifling.  
“What’s the matter?” Pellew peered anxiously over the edge of the cot. “Did you fall out?”  
“No.” Hornblower rubbed his eyes. His face felt sweaty and unclean and it seemed there was no air at all in the hot, humid cabin.  
“Then whatever’s the matter?” Pellew asked again. “It’s hot, that’s all.”  
Pellew sighed; his aggressive ardour gradually abated. The particular moment at which Horatio had chosen to fling himself out of bed suggested that he was not simply hot. “I’m sorry,” he said.  
“It’s nothing.”  
“I shouldn’t have done that,” said Pellew. Horatio hardly ever let him do that; why, he could not understand.  
“It’s all right.” Hornblower looked at him with a weary smile. “I’m sorry.  
It’s hot. This weather’s stifling.”  
“You need some air,” said Pellew, though he wondered whether it was the heat or the boy’s Puritan streak that was stifling him. “Why not go up on deck a while, or at least open the window?”  
“It is open. I don’t think the air’s getting in here.” Hornblower stood up and went naked to the main cabin, where the open windows admitted the faintest breath of a breeze.  
Pellew watched him and wiped his own brow; the sight of that strong slender body moving in the moonlight would have been enough to make him sweat even on a cold night.  
“What I need is a swim,” said Hornblower.  
“Mm.” Pellew found his eyes in the darkness, thinking what a sight that would be. Horatio moved so naturally through the water; he was lovely to watch but there were so few opportunities. “I think you’d better not, though I felt half inclined to join the men this morning—or take one of your showers.”  
Hornblower smiled. “You?”  
“Yes. That would’ve scared off the Frogs long before they saw Pygmalion, don’t you think?” As he spoke, Pellew joined Hornblower by the open window, where the feeble night breeze drew some of the heat from their bare bodies.  
Hornblower looked him up and down. Edward was fifty-two and his body had thickened a little while his skin had slackened, but he still presented a fine

strong figure, with muscular calves and broad shoulders. “I don’t think so,” Hornblower said quietly. A flirtatious smile flickered in his eyes. He had already forgotten why he had rolled out of bed; he had even forgotten about the three corvettes that had haunted him most of the evening.  
“Oh Horatio…” Pellew was lost for words; instead he reached out and found Horatio’s hand. “I won’t let you go swimming, for I could not bear to lose you in the dark, but will you let me bathe you?”  
“I can do it myself.”  
“If you prefer.” Pellew studied Horatio’s eyes as they held his in the moonlight; he did not wish to discomfort him again.  
“You’re not my servant,” said Hornblower, though he would never let a servant bathe him, either.  
“But I would like to.”  
“And I would like it, too.” Hornblower squeezed his hand. “Thank you.” Pellew poured a basin of water and fetched a candle and a washcloth;  
Hornblower sat at the dresser, watching in the mirror while Edward bathed him with cool water. Ordinarily, the feel of Horatio’s sleek wet skin might have made him ravenous but Edward controlled himself and concentrated on his duties as conscientiously as if he were a servant, for he wished to make Horatio more comfortable, not impose on him again. “Is that any better?” he asked when he had rinsed Horatio’s flushed face and back and arms.  
“A little, yes.” Hornblower closed his eyes while Edward sponged down his chest. “There’s hardly any breeze at all now.”  
“Mm,” said Pellew; that breeze counted for more than relief from the heat.  
With all her main course set, Hyacinth was still making her way south, but both men could sense that she had slowed markedly in the hours they had passed together.  
“Hopefully the wind will pick up in the morning,” Hornblower suggested. He could tell what Edward was thinking, for he was thinking the same thing, but breezes often rose and fell with the sun, especially at the equator. They had nothing to worry about yet.  
“Hopefully, yes.” For a few minutes, Pellew continued his slow strokes with the cool cloth in silence. Then he paused. “Do you think I made the right decision?”  
Hornblower opened his eyes reluctantly, as though woken from a pleasant dream. He had been content to sit in the dark with the cool cloth on his back and forget about the day’s events and the three French ships that were perhaps still making their way westward through the tropical night. “To call off the chase?”  
“Or to begin it.”  
“There was nothing else you could have done,” Hornblower answered honestly. “On either occasion.”

“I know,” said Pellew, but he did not sound as though he had quite convinced himself. “But to leave those ships at large… Yet the chase cost us time and if we lose this wind—”  
“—The wind has been fresher in the morning,” said Hornblower. “And our fleets in the West Indies and the East Indies—”  
“—I know.” Pellew laughed. “I’ll consider it my oblation to Troubridge, then. Three French corvettes, ripe for plucking.”  
Hornblower smiled. “Or to Admiral Dacres.” It was frustrating that they did not know whether the French ships had been bound for the West Indies or the East Indies, but Hornblower tried not to let it bother him now. “But what if we had caught them?” he added, trying to cast the turn of events in as positive a light as possible. “We’d have been hard pressed to man them.”  
Pellew nodded; any ship they caught would need a prize crew—officers and men he could ill-afford to lose. “And I would have been disobeying my orders.”  
“Your orders?” Hornblower frowned. He had not seen Pellew’s orders from the Admiralty; he did not know precisely what they said.  
“‘To proceed to Port Jackson without unnecessary delay’.”  
“I see.” It was typical of the Admiralty, like the legal profession, to bury important terms in a double-negative, with equally ambiguous effect. “I suppose we were not under threat.”  
“I suppose that is what His Lordship would say,” Pellew grumbled.  
Sighing, he let the cloth rest on the edge of the basin.  
Hornblower looked up and met his eyes. “If it is any comfort, I agreed with both decisions.”  
“Thank you, Horatio. Few things give me greater comfort than your concurrence.” He laid his palm on the young man’s forehead. “Do you feel any better now?”  
“Much better, thank you.”  
“That’s something to be glad of, at least. Do you think you will sleep?”  
“I think I should try,” said Hornblower. The hour was late, if he was to be up before dawn the next day.  
“Then I’ll see you in the morning—and hopefully a strong wind in our

sails.”

“Yes.” Hornblower smiled. “And if not, look for me in the water—should

the wind fail, I’ll have nothing better to do than dive in.”  
“I hope not. I hope we’ll have twenty knots and you’ll be forced to limit yourself to your… your shower antics.” Pellew cleared his throat. “I for one have no complaints.”  
Hornblower laughed. Then he put on his shirt and breeches, said good night, and went below with the rest of his clothes under one arm.  
In the wardroom he was startled to see two figures sitting in the gloomy light of a single lantern.

“Good evening, sir,” said Bush.  
“Mr Bush, Mr Martin,” Hornblower nodded awkwardly. He had not expected to find the off-duty officers awake; he had not thought that they too might be unable to sleep in the stuffy heat. Hornblower chided himself for going about half-dressed, but neither man batted an eyelid.  
“A warm night sir,” said Bush; his necktie was loose and his jacket nowhere to be seen.  
“Uncomfortably so, I’m afraid.” Hornblower went to his cabin door, hoping he was not blushing visibly. “Good night, gentlemen.”  
“Good night, sir,” said Bush. “But, sir?” “Yes, Mr Bush?”  
“We were wondering if you might join us—well, not myself, sir, but the officers—in a game of cards tomorrow night.”  
“We can all learn from your skill, captain,” said Martin.  
Hornblower smiled, though inside he worried whether this was Bush’s tactful way of asking what he did in the admiral’s cabin every night, since he had not found time for his usual game with his officers in over a week. “Of course,” he said amiably; no matter what Edward wanted or what he wanted, for everyone’s sake he would have to make time for his officers.  
“We’ll look forward to it then, sir,” said Martin. “As will I, gentlemen.”  
Hornblower retreated to his cabin and spent the brief night in broken  
sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The wind rose only a little with the sun the next morning and dropped even further in the afternoon. It had died almost entirely by the time Hornblower met his officers for cards in the wardroom.  
“Sir?”  
“Hmm?” Hornblower had been staring at his cards unseeingly for some minutes. His mind was elsewhere.  
“Your lead, sir,” said Martin.  
Hornblower led rashly and lost what should have been a trick. “Something on your mind sir?” Bush asked afterwards.  
“No.” Hornblower sighed. “Just the winds.” Bush nodded. “Of course.”  
Hornblower cleared his throat and forced himself to concentrate. “Best of five, gentlemen?” He could not allow his officers to see that he was troubled.  
The other men nodded and White dealt.

The canvas barely flapped the next morning and, by the time the sun reached its zenith, the fleet had come to a complete stop. Hornblower walked the quarterdeck anxiously in the heat of the midday sun, scanning the horizon for any patch of cloud or any shimmer on the sea’s surface that might signal a breath of wind, but no white broke the unrelenting blue and no breeze stirred the flaccid sails. Wiping sweat from his brow, Hornblower went below to make his official report that the fleet was becalmed.  
“Clearly,” Pellew snorted, staring through the stern windows. Where once there had been white spray, there was now a flat expanse of glassy turquoise. “But we have made excellent progress thus far and I think we may still consider ourselves ahead of schedule. Now we must wait for the wind. Take whatever measures you think prudent and advise the other ships to that effect.”  
“Aye sir.”  
Hornblower went back on deck, where he found the duty officers standing listlessly together by the gunwale.  
“I was calling all that blue sky pretty a week ago,” Orrock said to Clyde. “And now you’re getting freckles on your nose,” the midshipman replied. “Just be grateful you’re not getting something worse,” said White. “I’ve  
seen what the tropics can do to a man.”

At that point, Hornblower stepped forward. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said pointedly. There was no sense in upsetting the men with talk of disease. They may have lost the wind but there was no sign of sickness and, even if there had been, it was imperative that the officers set a good example— especially someone like White, who had held his commission fifteen years.  
“Sir,” said Clyde; the others acknowledged their captain.  
Hornblower folded his hands behind his back, then unfolded them and assumed a more relaxed posture; it was important that he not let his own frustration show, either. “Mr Orrock,” he said, “have the men rig a spare tops’l for shade. We’ll take advantage of this weather to make and mend.”  
“Aye sir.” Orrock knuckled his hat and collected the group of men gathered aimlessly around the capstan.  
“Mr White.” Hornblower looked sternly at his second lieutenant. “You might as well enjoy this fine weather, while we wait for the wind.”  
“Aye sir,” said White. Long experience had taught him to take his captain’s suggestion as an order. Hornblower did not hear him complain again.

“It’s so still,” Hornblower said as he and Pellew lay together that night. “Yes,” Pellew whispered; they were both whispering instinctively, for they  
were unused to the sound of their own voices without the continuous background noise of a ship under sail. In the sleeping cabin, even with the skylight closed, they could hear the sounds of the men chatting and carousing and chorusing to while away the idle hours; occasionally they could hear the footsteps of the officer of the watch on the deck above. Pellew and Hornblower hushed their voices, lest they should be heard so easily.  
“I can’t remember the last time I was becalmed,” said Pellew. “Hardly likely in the Channel.”  
“It would have been in the West Indies.”  
“Mm.” Those words made Hornblower think of his own time in the West Indies and all the unhappy things that had happened there; things he would prefer not to think about. He missed the creaking timbers and the coursing sea: idleness made him anxious and silence made him think too much.  
“How are the men taking it?” said Pellew, shifting a little. His legs had grown sticky against one another in the humid heat.  
“Hmm?” Hornblower blinked; he had been somewhere between Samana Bay and Kingston. “Admirably, so far. I think most of them expected it, sooner or later.” He did not add that his second lieutenant was more troublesome than the men.  
Pellew nodded. “They’re a good crew. I hope we may say the same in a week’s time, if that’s to be our fate. I hope we may say the same for Hotspur and Pygmalion.”  
“Have you heard from your son?”

“No—and he won’t really know his men until they’re tested together. But I’ve heard nothing from him.”  
A minute passed in eerie silence. “Edward?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Nothing.” Hornblower hesitated. “Only… I wonder whether you would have preferred him for your flag captain.”  
Pellew propped himself up so he could look Hornblower in the eye. “Whatever made you think that?”  
Hornblower did not reply immediately, for there was no reason he could articulate beyond his own self-doubt. “I suppose it would be natural,” he fumbled. “Because he’s your son.” He sighed, tongue-tied. “What I mean is, you must wish you could see him more.”  
Pellew grunted. “Believe me, Hornblower, it is possible for a man to see  
too much of his son. Besides which, Pownoll’s barely seen me a week together since he started school—I can’t say how we’d run along in these close quarters.” He smiled as he spoke but the smile was soon replaced by a more meaningful look. “As for you…” He ran a finger down Hornblower’s breastbone. “You’re my… well.” He coughed self-consciously but his meaning was perfectly clear.  
Hornblower smiled. “But, before we left, you told me a man might see too much of his lover.”  
“If the lover is me, perhaps, but not if the lover is you.” Pellew stroked his hairless chest as he spoke.  
Hornblower blushed. “Edward, don’t talk nonsense—”  
“I’m not.” Pellew looked intently into his eyes. “This past week, Horatio… We’ve hardly spent a night apart and yet… yet I feel even that is not enough.” His voice had sunk low, slow and turned to gravel; he seized Hornblower’s hand and squeezed it. “Never enough.”  
“Edward…” Hornblower pursed his lips and shifted awkwardly. He never knew what to say when Edward spoke that way, as if he were possessed by some charm Hornblower could never see in himself. He was relieved when Edward grew embarrassed and took his fond hand from his. “Well,” Hornblower ventured, “the other captains might come aboard any time while this calm continues—there would be no risk of losing the boat.”  
“Practical as always,” said Pellew, apparently restored to his usual self. “On the other hand, I don’t know that my son will wish to see me.”  
Hornblower frowned. “Why?”  
“Well, the last time I saw him, I ordered him to sail south and look where we are now! Not to mention—”  
“—Then don’t mention it.” Hornblower was weary of what-ifs. “Edward,  
this is no fault of yours.”  
“It may not be entirely my fault, Hornblower, but I cannot help feeling I might have… that I should have managed the situation better.”

“Edward—”  
“—But you’re right, there’s no use talking about it.” Pellew resettled himself in the cot. “I only hope that Pownoll is as understanding as you.”  
“I’m sure—”  
“—Shh,” Pellew whispered. He began to stroke Hornblower again; he could not keep his eyes or his hands off that perfect skin for long. “You’re too good to me, Horatio.”  
Hornblower squirmed. “Don’t be silly.”  
“Too good.” Pellew seized a handful of the younger man’s hair and let it slip between his fingers. “Too lovely.”  
Hornblower had no idea how to reply, so he pressed his lips to Edward’s.  
His kiss was somehow savoury—a reminder of the meal they had shared two hours ago—but Hornblower probably would not have noticed, were it not for the awful heat, and he did not let it deter him. As they kissed, he realised Edward was aroused and reached below to assist him. Hornblower was too agitated to feel particularly amorous but he and Edward had made love more often in the past few weeks than they often would in months and he supposed it had become a habit. He indulged him with firm quick strokes, hoping that, by helping Edward, he might forget his own troubles; at the very least it would make a more restful bedfellow.  
Drunk on Hornblower’s beauty and dizzy with tropical heat, Pellew took little time to spill himself into his lover’s waiting hands. His low groan of pleasure sounded in the still air like a wild beast growling in the night.  
Hornblower bent over to mute him with a kiss. “Forgive me,” Pellew sighed and sagged against his shoulder.  
Hornblower said nothing and quietly wiped his sticky hands down his clammy thighs, but he might as well have dried wet dishes with a damp cloth, for the night was sweltering and both men were drenched in sweat.  
When Pellew had caught his breath, he turned his attentions to Horatio, but he was not interested and turned away.  
“Horatio?” “Yes?”  
“Are you—are you finished?” “I’m quite content.”  
“Is there… is there something else you would like?”  
Hornblower drew a deep breath but it gave him no refreshment; instead he caught only the slight sour odour of Edward’s armpits. He suddenly felt itchy all over; the sweat running down his back prickled like a swarm of ants. At that moment, the only thing he might have wanted was another cool sponge bath; certainly not whatever Edward had in mind.  
Beside him, Pellew sat up as best he could without disturbing the cot. “There’s nothing I can do for you?”

“No thank you,” Hornblower said without turning. He did not mean to be unkind but he could not help feeling irritable. He was not used to the weather— nor, he supposed, the constant company. But above all it was other matters gnawing at his mind in the strange, hot, silent night that made him unable to enjoy their usual pleasures. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m a little tired.”  
“And hot—and much on your mind, of course.” Edward’s voice was as comforting and understanding as any could be, for it stemmed from real empathy. “Why don’t you go to sleep, my love?”  
“I will,” said Hornblower. He knew he would not sleep—he never could with an over-active mind—but he did not wish to shun Edward, who was trying hard to be kind. He resolved to lie still, even if he lay awake all night; that was kinder than saying what he really felt—that he wanted to be alone—and more peaceful than pacing the quarterdeck, as he sometimes did when he could not sleep.  
“I’m glad,” Pellew said softly and lay down beside him. “Good night, Horatio.”

Hornblower was still awake two hours later, though he could not have told how late it was, but for the quiet ringing of the ship’s bell at every half hour. There, in the cot, in the cramped sleeping cabin, his existence had become a monotony of humid dark, coddled by Edward’s hot bulk and rocked not by a rolling sea but by Edward’s snoring, rumbling deep in his throat and whistling through his nose. Hornblower found himself compelled to listen, as he sometimes found himself listening to a ticking clock, until he could hear nothing else. In that way, noise which did not normally trouble him became a kind of torture. He envied Edward his sleep even as he resented the disturbance to his own, but not even the unrelenting snoring was so bad as the unbearable heat.  
Hornblower was sure he had never known a night so hot—certainly not any night he had slept with another hot body—and the night only grew hotter while he lay there feigning sleep. Perhaps it was Edward’s presence that made it so, pressed close against him, but there was no space in the cot to lie apart.  
Hornblower might have gone to his cabin, where he would have his own hammock, even if the air was fouler still, but he felt trapped, lest his movement should wake Edward and reveal how long he had lain there sleepless. Instead he remained motionless, willing himself to sleep through sheer inactivity, while knowing full well that every moment would only make him more restless, more sweaty, and the snoring more vexing.  
He might have been a prisoner once more, trapped down that hole in Spain where he had spent an unbearable week and somehow borne it better than he was bearing this night, until a rat had run up his neck in the pouring rain. He hated rats; he hated the sticky sweat clinging like stinging claws on his skin.  
Hornblower shivered. He had lain absolutely still for longer than he could tell; until he felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, just as he had down that hole. At

last he could bear it no more. He twitched and shuddered and flung himself from the bed as violently as if there really were a rat upon him.  
Pellew woke with a start when Hornblower hit the floor. “What?” he stammered, half in sleep, before spotting him on his hands and knees. “Why do you keep throwing yourself out of my bed?”  
Hornblower had startled himself, too, but he was glad to be on the comparatively cool boards and cranky with Edward for croaking at him. “Because I’m hot,” he snapped; it did not occur to him that his companion might merely be confused. “I couldn’t stand it any longer.” In that moment, he might have said something about sweaty old men snoring like pigs, but he held his tongue and took a deep breath instead. Only then did he realise his palms stung from the tumble.  
“Then go to bed,” said Pellew. He heaved onto his other side, facing away from Hornblower.  
“With pleasure,” Hornblower mumbled. He picked himself up off the floor and shuffled to the door, before he remembered his clothes. He found his coat in the main cabin, where the gold braid caught the light of a quarter moon, but the rest of his clothes were in a jumble under the cot. He set his jaw and dragged out a pile of garments that might all have been identical, so far as he could see. “Damn it,” he cursed.  
“What’s the matter?” Pellew asked without turning; Hornblower’s agitated padding about the cabin had kept him awake. He too was hot and irritable and over-aware of every irritation.  
“Nothing,” Hornblower said tersely. He was still annoyed with Edward; the last few hours had left him annoyed with the whole world. He dragged on the first pair of breeches he found. Fortunately they were his own, for Pellew’s would have been too big. Fat, sweaty old men, Hornblower thought uncharitably. Then he donned his uniform jacket, with nothing else beneath. He would have to come back in the morning.  
“Horatio?”  
Hornblower halted at the door. “I’m sorry,” Pellew said softly.  
“I’m sorry too,” Hornblower muttered through gritted teeth. Then he went below and eventually fell asleep, less than an hour before he would have to rise.

Three days later, there was no sign of a wind and the fleet still floated, lifeless, at the mercy of the sun. The heat in the middle of the day was almost unbearable and the monotony even worse. Hornblower’s only occupation was to keep the men busy, as best he could. By the fourth day of the calm Hyacinth boasted impeccably clean decks and perfectly mended sails, with not a puff of air to fill them. There had been no trouble from the crew; still, Hornblower found himself wondering, in the long idle hours, what might happen if the calm

persisted: putrid water in short supply, discontent and disease were all unwelcome possibilities. Four days had left him desperate for the wind’s return; many more and Edward’s talk of gnawing on the woodwork might not seem so far-fetched.  
It was that thought which prompted Hornblower to go with the men when he ordered the boats out that morning. With no wind to keep their course, Hornblower kept hands at the oars for two hours each day to correct for the current’s drift and to keep the men out of mischief. It was hot, sweaty work, even early in the morning, but the exercise improved his spirits and he hoped it might bolster the men’s, too, to see their captain working with them.  
The boat crews were back aboard by the close of the morning watch, for it would soon be too hot for any kind of strenuous labour. Hornblower remained on deck, where he was taking his breakfast in the shade of the mizzen when he saw a string of flags hoisted on Pygmalion. He frowned; apparently he was the first to spy the signal. “Report,” he asked of the quarterdeck at large. “Mr Sommers, where’s Mr Clyde?”  
Sommers jumped at the question; he had learned enough in his short time at sea to know that Clyde should have reported that signal the moment it was run up. “He went below, sir, just for a moment.”  
“Well look it up, damn it!”  
Sommers scurried after the signal book.  
“Mr Clyde,” said Hornblower, the moment Clyde appeared on deck.  
The midshipman realised his absence had been noted and came rapidly to attention. “Sir, the skiff sprung a leak. The heat on the boards, I think. The men are caulking it now, sir.”  
“Thank you,” Hornblower said neutrally; he was pleased Clyde had some proper excuse for his absence but not at all pleased that the ship’s boats were cracking up. For the moment, however, he wanted Pygmalion’s signal translated. “Report, please.” Hornblower hinted with a slight nod in the sloop’s direction.  
Clyde raised the large single-draw telescope he carried as officer of the watch. “Ah, that’s ‘Pygmalion to flagship’… The rest is spelled out, sir.” Flustered, Clyde joined Sommers and together they took a minute to decipher the message. “It says, ‘Congratulations on your birth-day sir’—sir.” The first ‘sir’ was part of the signal.  
“Thank you, Mr Clyde.”  
“Is it your birth-day, sir?” said the master.  
“No, Mr Prowse—not mine.” Hornblower started down the companion. “Mr Clyde, don’t acknowledge that signal until I return.”  
Hornblower knocked on the door of the great cabin. “Enter,” came Pellew’s voice. Inside, the steward was on his knees, buckling the admiral’s knee- breeches. “Yes, Hornblower?” Pellew was dimly hopeful that the captain brought word of a wind.

“Sir, may I recommend your attendance on deck—at your convenience, of course.” Hornblower was smiling but nonetheless he spoke a little awkwardly. He had felt awkward since that hot sleepless night; while he and Edward had talked as admiral and captain or as friends around the card table, there had been no intimacy between them.  
“What is it? Report, if you please.”  
“Nothing, sir—only a signal from Pygmalion. I thought you might wish to see for yourself.” Hornblower hoped to reassure Pellew without giving away the surprise, though if he knew the date he could presumably guess what sort of signal his son had sent. Hornblower was grateful for the reminder; he had completely forgotten it was the 19th of April and that the 19th of April was Edward’s birthday.  
“Indeed?” Pellew raised one eyebrow; Hornblower could not tell whether he had forgotten his own birthday or was merely feigning ignorance. Either way he laughed when he saw the flags still flying from Pygmalion’s mast. Pellew, at least, knew his signals.  
“Acknowledge that message,” he said. Then he called for a glass and spotted his son on Pygmalion’s poop deck, watching him through his own telescope.  
“Congratulations, sir,” Hornblower said quietly. When he caught Pellew’s eye, he mouthed ‘Edward’, only to scold himself for speaking that way on deck. “On behalf of myself and the men,” he added quickly.  
“Thank you,” said Pellew. He, too, looked a little embarrassed; he was also hot in his ornate uniform after only five minutes on deck. “Though it’s hardly cause for celebration.” He was referring to the fact that he was now fifty-three years old. “But why not, eh?” Pellew laughed at himself. “Hornblower, ask the other captains and their officers to join us this evening for a modest celebration. We ought at least try to be cheerful.”  
“Aye sir,” said Hornblower.

Merrick worked wonders with weevil-ridden sacks and Pellew poured his best wine. There was plenty of talk around the table as three ships’ officers dined together, some of them for the first time. Lieutenant Preece, first of the Hotspur, was interested to learn that his family were neighbours of Martin’s back in England; Keogh from Pygmalion was pleased to sit beside White, with whom he shared a passion for cricket; and Bush was glad to meet Keogh, who complained of being the only officer aboard his ship who had no interest in playing cards.  
“Me too,” Bush laughed.  
Meanwhile Hornblower had a chance to talk at length with Walton and discover that they shared a taste for the classics. By the time the meat dishes were cleared away, they had arranged that Hornblower would loan Walton his abridgement of Gibbon in exchange for Dryden’s Aeneid.

Pellew, too, was glad to gather the officers of his fleet. He made sure to speak with each of his guests over the course of the evening, playing down the nominal occasion of his birthday and concentrating instead on becoming better acquainted with the men who served under him. Only sometimes did he allow his eyes to dwell on his flag captain, but Hornblower met his eyes each time.  
Pellew was pleased to see that everyone was in good spirits and that none of the men present seemed to harbour any ill-feeling towards him on account of their current predicament. The corvettes, mercifully, were barely mentioned. Nor did Pownoll seem to think any the less of his father, as Edward had feared he might. They were seated together and they talked at length once the admiral had done his due around the table. Hornblower watched from time to time; he was curious but, from the far end of the table, he could only hear snatches of what they said.  
“We’re getting along well enough,” Pownoll was telling his father, “but the men don’t care for their rations. They say there’s not enough water in this heat and they’ve certainly tasted better—sir.”  
“Then you must ensure they have something better to do than think about their rations.”  
“Aye sir.” Pownoll looked troubled.  
“But come now,” said Pellew, addressing himself to the whole table, “I hoped this would be a cheerful evening.”  
“Oh, it has been, sir,” said Walton, looking to Preece for concurrence. “A change of scene is always agreeable.”  
“Especially when the scene outside is changing so little,” said White. “Sir.”  
Hornblower pursed his lips; he had already spoken to White once about his pointless pessimism and he did not want to have to speak to him again.  
Happily Keogh soon engaged him on some point of cricket, leaving Hornblower to talk to Walton—and listen, occasionally, to the two Pellews.  
“Broughton has promised to look after Susan and the girls for me,” Edward was telling Pownoll, later in the evening. Broughton was an old friend of Pellew’s—they had served together, many years ago—but, beyond that, Hornblower knew little of him. “Of course, it might be next year before we have a letter—but you must not forget to write to your mother.”  
Pownoll nodded and Hornblower stopped listening. He knew he should not eavesdrop and he did not want to know too much about Edward’s other life. He felt uncomfortable when he thought about Edward’s wife and children; he had never met them, besides Pownoll, and he had barely met Pownoll either.  
While Walton spoke of his education, the studies he had liked at school and the masters he had disliked, Hornblower watched the two pairs of brown eyes at the far end of the table, both dark and round and almost alike, only Pownoll’s said nothing while Edward’s spoke volumes. Those eyes were somehow unnerving, even when he smiled.

“Julia asked for silk from the Indies,” Pownoll was telling his father. “Do you think she will settle for a kangaroo skin?”  
Pellew chuckled. “You must ask your sister that.”  
Pownoll’s words could not have been more normal or more innocent, Hornblower told himself, and turned back to Captain Walton, who was recalling a Greek master called Mr Macintosh and asking whether Hornblower had ever understood the middle voice.

Later, when the food and most of the wine had gone, talk turned to the equatorial ceremony that had seen both Captain Walton and Captain Pellew scrambling out of the water just in time to confront the French corvettes.  
“I trust you both enjoyed the swim?” said Pellew, hoping to steer the conversation away from the French ships to more frivolous matters. He still reproached himself over the aborted chase, but he was alone in dwelling on the matter.  
“I wouldn’t say no to a swim now, sir,” Walton said buoyantly; the evening was as hot as those that had preceded it and he, for one, had seemed to enjoy his induction to the court of Neptune.  
Pellew smiled. “That could be arranged.”  
“But there is another ceremony we have failed to observe,” said Pownoll. “And what’s that?”  
“I believe it is customary to throw one’s admiral into the sea on his birthday.” Pownoll smiled mischievously.  
His father laughed. “I’m not so sure. Has anyone else heard of such a ceremony?”  
“No sir,” said Walton.  
“I don’t want to get myself hanged, sir,” Bush threw in; after a few glasses of wine, he was unusually voluble.  
“Certainly not in this heat,” said Pellew. “Think of the stench!” He laughed again. “Though I have half a mind to hang Captain Pellew for drawing attention to this dastardly event!”  
“I do not apologise, sir,” Pownoll replied with a fond glance at his father.  
Then he raised his glass. “But I do wish you a happy birth-day.” “A happy birth-day to you, sir,” the other men chorused. “And many happy returns,” said Hornblower.

The other ships’ parties had departed and most of Hyacinth’s officers as well. Hornblower was the last to rise, with Martin and a rather merry Bush, but Pellew called him back as he reached the door.  
“Hornblower?” “Yes sir?”  
“A minute, if you please.”

“Of course.” Hornblower thought to say good night to Bush, but he had already gone below. Instead he let the door close. “Yes sir?”  
“I hoped you might stay a little while, captain.”  
“Of course,” said Hornblower, less certainly this time. He wondered what Edward intended, for the last evening they had spent together had not ended well, and they had hardly spoken at dinner; they had hardly had a chance. But now Hornblower sat in Pownoll’s chair.  
Pellew cleared his throat; clearly he was apprehensive, too. He reached for the bottle of Madeira. “Do have some more wine.” He filled two glasses without waiting for a reply. “It’s shameful, really, to have any left.”  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. He had already drunk more than enough, but he drank anyway. “Did you have a happy birth-day?”  
“My intent was not to provide something for myself, but something for my officers. I hope I have done that—but, yes, it was a happy birth-day.”  
“I’m glad,” said Hornblower.  
“Certainly the happiest I’ve spent on a becalmed ship.” Now that they were chatting, both of them were beginning to relax.  
“Have there been many?”  
“No.” Pellew nearly laughed. The wine—or perhaps it was the passing of another year—had made him mellow enough to smile at fate or weather patterns or whatever it was that saw his little fleet drifting in the middle of the Atlantic without a breath of wind. Then he looked into Hornblower’s eyes and looked a long time before saying, “So far, at any rate.”  
Hornblower’s lips parted slightly but he waited for Edward to elaborate. “I hoped you might stay, Horatio.”  
“Of course I will.” Hornblower was relieved to know he was wanted, after the last night they had spent together. He had never doubted that Edward would forgive him—he had long since forgiven Edward—but the mere thought of spending the rest of the voyage at odds with his lover was enough to make him nervous.  
“Good,” Pellew replied, with a studied nonchalance that only proved he was nervous, too. “More wine?”  
“Ah… very well.” Hornblower considered explaining that he already felt dizzy but he suspected Edward would pay him no mind anyway.  
“We might as well finish it—there’s hardly any here.” Pellew topped up both glasses.  
“Thank you.”  
They drank a while in silence. Hornblower thought about the wine— fifteen years old—and he thought about Edward, fifty-three. He did not look fifty-three, Hornblower mused, but then he did not really know what fifty-three looked like. He certainly did not look old, Hornblower decided: Edward was stockier than when they had first met but he was still strong, his hair was grey but still abundant, and his eyes were as beguiling as they ever had been—they

addressed him, they arrested him, sometimes they undressed him. Hornblower could hardly see past those eyes to see what else had changed, not that it mattered. He was in love.  
“Hmm?”  
Hornblower blinked, realising only then that he was staring and that Edward had not failed to notice.  
“Can you tell?” Pellew asked, one eyebrow arched. “Sorry?”  
“The years, Horatio—you looked as though you were counting them.” Pellew frowned comically, as though to accentuate the fact that his once-black brow was now threaded with grey. “I think you’ll find number fifty-three tailored into these new breeches.” He patted his belly.  
“No.” Hornblower smiled. Edward was as handsome as ever and as sharp as ever; he had been making people smile all night, not always at his own expense. “Don’t be silly.” He took Edward’s hand and, for a minute or two, they enjoyed each other’s touch in silence. His hand was pleasantly cool, Hornblower thought; cool and dry, not hot and clammy as it had been three nights earlier. In fact he was not hot at all, Hornblower realised; whether the change was in the air or in his mind he could not tell. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually.  
“What for?”  
“The other night.” Hornblower ran his thumb absently over Edward’s knuckles. “I was uncomfortable and I behaved badly.”  
“Don’t talk nonsense, Horatio. I’m a smelly old man. I can’t deny it and I can’t expect you to put up with it as well as you do. You spoil me, Horatio.”  
Hornblower shook his head. “Don’t you talk nonsense.” He wanted to tell  
Edward that he should not disparage himself; that he was not old and not smelly—not usually, at least—but he found a way that did not require words. He brought Edward’s hand to his lips for a simple kiss.  
“I’m not—” Pellew started, but he stopped his protest when Hornblower turned his hand over and began to kiss his palm, mouthing it as gently as a lamb, then making him prickle all over with the quick lick of a hot tongue. Edward closed his eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. Then he inverted the touch, caressing Horatio’s lips with his finger tips, kissing him with his hands— hands that worked like a bridle-bit, leading Horatio to his side and luring him into his lap. Their mouths met then, leaving their hands free for other work, untying and unbuttoning as they kissed; now gently, now deeply. “I love you, Horatio,” Pellew whispered; “I love you,” he sighed, not caring how sappy he sounded as he rocked his beloved in his lap. “Of course this is a happy day,” he cried, pulling him closer still; their hearts beat harder pressed close like that.  
The sharp wit Hornblower had admired moments before was swept away in an outpouring of affection which no quick quip or arched brow could hope to disguise now, and Hornblower and all his tremendous intelligence was swept

away with it. It was all he could do to touch Edward; to kiss him, there in the dining chair, until Edward began to touch and kiss with stronger intent.  
Soon they were in the sleeping cabin, naked and sweating, but it was not the clammy cloying sweat that had tormented Hornblower three nights earlier. Their skin did not cling but slipped together joyously. Hands slid over shoulders, down backs, up thighs and up between; kneading, squeezing, needing.  
“You’re exquisite,” Edward breathed, his lips pressed to one ear, one cheek; “beautiful,” he sighed, pressing words like kisses to any piece of skin he could reach. He kissed Horatio’s neck and each of his nipples with feathery little kisses that made the younger man wriggle.  
“Oh,” Hornblower gulped, writhing from side to side to make the tickling stop. But Pellew was not deterred; he lay over him and pressed their groins hard together. Horatio trembled but he did not protest; he seized Edward’s shoulders and pulled him close to his chest. Their lips met once more as they rubbed against each other.  
“I love you, my darling,” Pellew whispered, and underlined his words with still-deeper kisses. He searched his lover’s mouth and imprisoned his lips while his roving hands gripped shoulders, haunch and hips. They kissed for so long that they both grew light-headed.  
Hornblower snatched a breath and wrapped his arms around Edward’s back, pulling him closer still, as though he hoped they might fuse somehow; weld. Horatio was strong, Pellew thought in a daze; slender yet so strong. But they were crushed together, too aroused to be so close, and pressed between their bodies pleasure verged on pain. It was only natural, then, that Horatio should lay his legs a little apart to allow Edward between; that Edward should thrust and Horatio squeeze so they both shivered all over. They were making love like the figures they had seen on Greek vases in the British Museum, Hornblower realised foggily; Pellew did not realise but he knew that this congress felt more consummate than any that had gone before. Still, like an itch inflamed by scratching, somehow it was not enough, and soon Horatio’s legs closed around Edward’s trunk.  
“My God,” Pellew wheezed as the breath was squeezed from him. He clutched Hornblower’s shoulders, then his buttocks, then his waist; Hornblower rocked his hips and rolled almost in a ball. It was only natural, then, that he should spread a little wider, and Edward nudge a little higher—upwards, onwards, inwards—until he moved inside.  
Hornblower thrashed and threw him off. “What are you doing!” he wailed, one rolling eye staring up at Edward through a tangle of sweaty curls. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and his startled cry gave way to frightened sobs.  
It happened in an instant, too fast for Pellew to understand. “Horatio?” His own breath shuddered through his chest as arousal faded into horror. Beside him, Horatio was hunched in a ball, hugging his knees. Pellew crushed his hand to his own forehead. “My God, what have I done?” His voice scraped over the

words. He looked anxiously at Horatio but dared not offer comfort. “Are you all right, Horatio? Are you all right, my love?” Then he looked away, for he could not bear to see his beloved suffer, nor suffer the thought that he was to blame. “What have I done?” he muttered again; yet, beneath his concern and his contrition, he felt that he had done no more than they had done together.  
Hornblower said nothing; his face was turned away.  
“It… I thought… you seemed…” Pellew heaved; he did not know what to say and he did not trust himself to judge because he had misjudged so very badly. “I would never do anything to hurt you,” he stammered, “never mean to hurt you, but… but for one moment I thought it was right.” He drew a shaky breath and forced himself to look again. He wanted to explain but Horatio gave no sign that he understood and Pellew decided that anything he could say would only make things worse. He would do better to say nothing at all and leave the boy alone; leave him alone—that was what he ought to have done in the first place. Pellew rose from the cot, cursing himself, and stood in the corner of the tiny cabin. He turned his face to the wall. For the first time he felt ashamed of his nakedness; not because he was old but because his body was the guilty instrument which had hurt Horatio.  
He stood there for some time in silence. When at last he looked around, he was surprised to see Hornblower sitting up, looking at him. “Oh Horatio,” he said shakily, “you cannot wish to stay here. Please go to bed and forget, if you can.” Still Hornblower said nothing. “Horatio, please…” Pellew came closer, close enough to touch, but did not touch him. “Please tell me you’re not badly hurt.”  
“Not at all,” Hornblower said calmly.  
Pellew could not believe what he was hearing, for Hornblower had reacted like he had been shot. “Horatio—”  
“I was frightened, that’s all.” He met Pellew’s eyes and spoke with his head high; had he not been a jumble of naked limbs, he would have looked almost proud. But Pellew was slow to believe his words, just as he had been slow to believe that Horatio could really love him and want to lie with him. He looked into the young man’s eyes. Though his cheeks were still pink and his lashes damp with tears, he offered a weak smile that soothed Edward’s pounding heart. “I didn’t expect you to do that,” he said in the same calm tone.  
“Of course not,” Pellew sighed, but it was a sigh of relief as much as remorse. “We agreed that we wouldn’t—”  
Hornblower silenced him with a nod. “I know.” They had touched each other every way they knew how and taken each other into their mouths, but they had never breached Article Twenty-Nine and they had never tried, since one night on the Indefatigable when it seemed that they might. They had been newly in love then and curious exuberance had led them to the brink before they realised what they were doing. But they had stopped and sat up half the night talking instead. They had spoken frankly and, as the ship’s bell tolled the

morning watch, they had agreed that the only time they should have cause to speak of buggery or sodomy should be on Sundays when they read the Articles of War. “But that doesn’t matter,” Hornblower said now. He was not a sodomite but he did not think it a detestable sin and he had said as much that night on the Indy.  
“But Horatio—”  
“—It isn’t important,” said Hornblower. “No matter what we do, we’re no more than you and I.”  
“Why…” Pellew shook his head slowly. “Logical as always.” He was amazed that Hornblower could speak like Locke or Hume when minutes earlier he had been a sobbing wreck, but Hornblower always amazed him—Hornblower who could solve trigonometry in his head, explain Aristotle and Plato, and capture a French battery with no more than a block and tackle. He was older than his years and wiser than his admiral. “But Horatio, you need not always be so accommodating,” said Pellew. “You should be angry with me.”  
“I’m not angry.”  
“But I should never have done that. You didn’t want—” “—I did.”  
Pellew fell silent.  
“I think I did want it.” Hornblower looked down at his knees and the blush deepened in his cheeks. He was embarrassed by what he was saying but determined to say it. “Like you said, it felt right, only… only I didn’t think you would do it.”  
Pellew let out a breath he had not even realised he was holding and grasped Hornblower’s hand. To hear that Horatio had felt the same way—that all the little signals he thought he had seen had not been wishful thinking—was like a divine pardon.  
“I was frightened,” Hornblower said, rubbing Edward’s hand with the pad of his thumb, just like he had done at the dinner table, before everything happened.  
Pellew reached out—gingerly at first—and put his arms around him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”  
“I didn’t mean to panic.” Hornblower sighed once more and leaned gratefully into his strong familiar body.  
“You must not be sorry.” Pellew stroked his back in slow soothing circles. “I will never frighten you again,” he whispered. “I will keep our promise. We will never do that again.”  
Hornblower was quiet for a minute, breathing softly against his lover’s neck while Edward rubbed his back slowly, round and round. “Did we promise?” he asked, very quietly.  
“I—I beg your pardon?” Pellew could not be sure what Horatio meant and could not trust himself to guess.

“Only… I mean… it seems to me that we both wanted something, for a moment.”  
“Then I promise to do whatever you want, my love.” Pellew’s voice quavered on the tide of conflicted emotions—confusion and contrition, anxiety and arousal—but he did not let go. Horatio was so very wonderful, he thought, so clever and so beautiful; he was lucky just to hold him in his arms. He could not bear to lose that, not for any prize. As he stroked Hornblower’s back, his hands ran occasionally over the downy scoop at the base of his spine, but he did not linger there. He had been reckless before and he could not afford to be reckless with one he loved so much.

“Sir.”  
Hornblower was woken by rapid knocking on his door. “Sir.”  
He sat up in his hammock—his own hammock, he realised, though he could not immediately recall leaving Edward’s room the previous night. “Yes, Mr Bush?” His voice was croaky but his mind came rapidly to attention, for it was an hour at least before he had asked to be called and he knew Bush would not wake him unless he had something important to say.  
Bush opened the door just a few inches. “We have a wind, sir,” he grinned, peering in.  
“Resume our course,” said Hornblower, sliding out of bed as he spoke. “Aye sir,” Bush said brightly. He showed no ill-effects from the wine he  
had drunk the previous night; then again, the news was enough to cure a bad head.  
Hornblower appeared on deck a minute later, wearing his breeches and jacket over his nightshirt and his hair in a lop-sided pigtail. He saw Hyacinth’s fore course and mainsail set, not quite filled and flapping slightly in the rising breeze.  
“Wind’s almost dead north,” said Prowse, touching his hat. “It’ll blow itself up by dawn, sir.”  
“Very good.” Hornblower saw that Prowse had been busy in the pre-dawn blue: the yards had been braced to make the best use of the northerly and all sail was ready to set. “Make all speed, Mr Prowse,” Hornblower said almost triumphantly.  
“Aye sir. Prepare to set t’gallants!”  
Hornblower watched from the poop deck as the hands hurried to the clew lines and hauled. Topgallants, staysails and finally the royals bloomed above his head like great white lilies. “Square away there,” he heard Prowse call, then a petty officer, “Port halyard haul!” Slowly, as the first sliver of the sun appeared on the horizon, the sheets began to billow and the ship gathered way. The men forward cheered the first foaming bow-wave.

Hornblower held his head held high, revelling in the golden dawn and the weak warm wind, which had restored life to the little fleet. With any luck, the wind would rise with the sun but, for now, it was satisfying just to see Hyacinth’s sails filled after almost five days without a flutter.  
“It’s like the ship’s waking up, sir,” said Bush, standing beside his captain.  
Hornblower smiled. “Is that a hint, Mr Bush?” He glanced down at his own state of attire.  
Bush laughed quietly. “No sir—only, it’s good to be under way again.” “Yes.” Hornblower squinted east at the newly-risen sun. He did feel as  
though he had just woken up, not from his night’s sleep but from some ill humour that had hung about him while his ship was becalmed. Those cloying clammy nights seemed like the distant past now; the trauma of the previous night a trifle. With the wind in his hair, he felt at ease with himself and the world. “How’s your head, Mr Bush?” he asked, smiling.  
Bush laughed again. “Well, sir.” He lifted his chin and drew a deep breath. The air was fresher now that the ship was ploughing south again. “Couldn’t be better, sir.”

“That’s highway robbery, Hornblower,” Pellew chuckled as his partner played the trick which won the game for captain and admiral.  
“Aye sir,” White muttered, theatrically but not insolently, as he tossed the remainder of a useless hand down on the table top.  
“There’s still a hand to play, Mr White,” Martin tried to console his partner.  
Bush, who was standing between Hornblower and Martin, observing both sides of the game, touched Martin on the shoulder and laughed softly. “I fear it was a mistake to let these two gentlemen play together.”  
“But they have played together and won, every time,” said White.  
“Not every time, Mr White,” Hornblower corrected him. The two lieutenants had won the first hand but it seemed that taste of success had only served to sour what followed for Lieutenant White.  
Martin, however, was smiling. “Near enough, sir.” He looked at his partner. “But I, for one, hope to improve my game.”  
Hornblower gathered up the cards and began to shuffle. “I’ll deal then, shall I?”  
They played again and Hornblower and Pellew won again; game and rubber.  
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” said Bush.  
“That’s easy for you to say, Bush,” White grumbled as he shunted his coin—not much, but enough to be worth playing for—towards the admiral.  
“Watch your tongue, Mr White,” Martin said under his breath.  
Pellew glanced sidelong at White. “I think a man’s entitled to grumble— so long as he pays up.” He looked at Hornblower, who thought a man ought not

to grumble at all at the card table but nodded anyway, since Pellew was attempting to ensure that a pleasant evening did not turn unpleasant.  
Hornblower worried about White’s attitude but he supposed Edward was right: now was not the time to take issue with him. Hornblower had other reasons, too, for avoiding any unpleasantness: this was the first evening he had spent in the great cabin since Edward’s birthday. He had been awkward at first and he suspected that was one reason why he and Pellew had lost the first game: they could read each other’s eyes as other men could not and often that bond made them triumphant, but Hornblower had begun the evening too conscious of what had happened two nights earlier and he had shied from Edward’s eyes. As the evening wore on, however, he had relaxed and their eyes met more and more. They had played better as a result and, now that they had won, they gazed at each other across the table. Hornblower was not shy any more—for a moment he nearly forgot that they were not alone—but Pellew, ever the attentive host, broke their gaze and addressed his guests.  
“Gentlemen, can I offer you another glass or shall we call it a night?” “Not for me, thank you sir,” said Martin. “I have the morning watch.” “I’ll take my leave too, sir,” said White; Hornblower hoped he did not  
hold a grudge.  
“And what about you, Mr Bush?” said Pellew. “You’ve been like a shadow, hanging about us all evening!”  
Bush laughed. “And, like a shadow, I’ll creep away. But thank you for your hospitality, sir, and good night.”  
The admiral nodded, the captain smiled and the three lieutenants left, leaving Hornblower and Pellew alone at the large table, much as they had been after the birthday party. Hornblower was self-conscious; more so than he had been while the others were there. He looked at his hands, at the abandoned cards, at the pile of coins and only fleetingly at Edward, but he did not want to leave.  
They sat in silence for perhaps a minute before Pellew spoke. “Do you think the officers resent our partnership?”  
Hornblower hesitated, wondering if there was a double meaning in his choice of words, but Pellew’s tone was perfectly conversational and he answered the question on its face. “Not unduly. When I was a lieutenant, I would have expected no less—but I do think White mutters too much.”  
“Perhaps, though I suspect it’s mostly his manner.” Pellew looked into Hornblower’s eyes; before long, Hornblower realised he was not thinking about winning at Whist or Lieutenant White any more. Pellew leaned forward in his seat. “Hornblower… Horatio…”  
His companion swallowed consciously. “Horatio, the other night…”  
Hornblower squirmed but he forced himself to hold Edward’s eyes.

“I think both of us were too long in the doldrums—and probably too much in our cups.” Pellew’s voice was calm and conciliatory. “I want to apologise again for what happened, and I hope that, even if you cannot forgive me, that you might at least understand—”  
“—Please,” Hornblower cut him off. He had forgiven him instantly but he did not wish to spend the rest of their days discussing what had happened that night. He edged closer until their knees touched under the table. “All is well, you see?” He patted Edward’s knee.  
Pellew placed a hand over his. He wanted to believe what he was hearing but he was still haunted by Hornblower’s terrified eyes.  
Hornblower took a deep breath. “I think that breeze is blowing up.”  
“I think so too,” said Pellew. “Shall we go and see? Take a walk with me, up on deck.”  
“It would be a pleasure.”  
Hornblower smiled again and they rose. A walk was just what they needed, he decided as he followed Edward out onto the gun deck. They had spent so many nights in a sweaty hammock that they had forgotten there were other ways of spending time together; they had spent too much time in that hammock until, inevitably, they had gone too far. But the rising wind would put things right, Hornblower thought as he walked the deck at Edward’s side. It had restored balance: there were things to do, duties to perform and cards to play— and between all those other things he and Edward would once again be grateful for what time they had alone.  
“Feel that,” said Pellew, leaning over the windward gunwale. He closed his eyes and sniffed loudly. “Sea spray.”  
Hornblower laughed. “Hmm?”  
“Your hair.” Hornblower ran his fingers through the shorter hair on Pellew’s crown, whipped up by the wind like grass in a gale.  
Pellew scowled. “I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh, Horatio.”  
Hornblower raised a hand to his own head and found his curls had become strange tentacles, waving in the wind and sticky with spindrift. “Oh dear,” he laughed.  
“Well, it proves this wind’s real, even if you have to spend all tomorrow combing your hair.” Pellew looked into Hornblower’s eyes. “Beautiful hair.” He reached out in the dark and squeezed Hornblower’s hand for one instant. “Beautiful.”  
Hornblower’s eyes widened. Touching on deck was something they simply did not do, but it was what they wanted to do—perhaps it was what they needed to do—and he knew that no-one could see. “I love you,” he whispered, revelling for one moment in the feeling of breaking taboo.

“Would you care for a hand, sir?” Martin asked, late the next evening, when Hornblower wandered out of his cabin, having lain sleepless and fully- uniformed for over an hour. Evidently Martin was sleepless, too; he was alone in the wardroom playing Solitaire.  
“Hmm?” Hornblower took a moment to realise that Martin was proposing a game of cards; he had something quite different on his mind. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.”  
“All right sir—I think Mr White could use another day to get his nerve back anyway.”  
“Perhaps tomorrow then,” Hornblower agreed, and went on his way.  
As he stood in midnight silence outside the great cabin, he could see the slit of light from under the door which showed that Edward was awake. Then he did what no ordinary flag captain would do and entered without knocking.  
Inside, Pellew was sitting at his desk in his nightshirt and dressing gown, reading  
Robinson Crusoe in the poor light of four candles. “Hornblower,” he said, startled. “Horatio,” Hornblower replied. In a moment he was at Edward’s side,  
taking his hand and kissing it.  
“Horatio, I—” Pellew abandoned his book. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visitation? Is it my birth-day again so soon?”  
“No,” Hornblower replied, still clutching Edward’s hand to his lips. Then he tugged him to his feet and pressed himself to his chest, one hand over the hairy place where his nightshirt was unlaced.  
At first Pellew stood like a statue while Hornblower laid his offering upon him; then he raised a hand to stroke the young man’s cheek. He wanted to throw his arms around him and kiss him as he would have done a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, but now he was anxious to control his passion. “Horatio—”  
“—Shh,” said Hornblower, laying a finger to Edward’s lips as decisively as he had come to his room and put himself in his arms.  
Pellew traced the curve of Horatio’s cheek so lightly his skin tingled.  
Hornblower arrested his hand with his own.  
“Itchy,” he said, “like something crawling.” He sounded childish but there was nothing childish about his manner when he spoke again. He took Edward’s hand and guided it to his lips. “Don’t be afraid to touch me.”  
At last Pellew knew why he had come. He had his mandate; he snatched half a breath then lifted Hornblower’s chin and kissed him, tenderly but firmly and seemingly unendingly, until the boy went limp in his arms. “Better?” he whispered.  
“Yes,” Hornblower sighed, sagging against him like a rag doll in a captain’s uniform.  
“Time for bed, I think,” Pellew said fondly. “Time for sleep.”  
Hornblower smiled. “Yes.” Then he went to bed and fell straight asleep for the first time in a week.


	5. Chapter 5

“Land ho!” came Sommers’ cry from the fighting top, his youthful voice breaking over the words.  
“Raise our colours and inform the admiral.”  
Hornblower allowed himself a satisfied smile. More than a week ago, Pellew had decided to put in at Saint Helena, a long-established outpost of the East India Company, four hundred leagues from the coast of Africa. With the Cape Colony still in Dutch hands—though England was expected to reclaim in any day—and all other ports in those latitudes closed to British shipping, Saint Helena was the last possible port of call before Sydney. Pellew had originally planned to complete the voyage non-stop—ships often travelled from England to India without taking on fresh supplies and the Coromandel had made her journey without stopping once—but they were nine weeks out of Portsmouth and no-one could say how long it might be until they reached Port Jackson. A week of calms was ample reminder of the vicissitudes of the sea.  
Therefore Pellew had decided to stop long enough to take on food and water. Hornblower was glad of the decision: fresh provisions would be a just reward for men who had served him unquestioningly, even while the ship floated idle, and would ensure that their good health and good spirits held for the remainder of the journey, however long that might be. For his own part, Hornblower was seduced by the thought of fresh vegetables: he had not eaten anything green for weeks, with the exception of pea soup, and even the ship’s water was greener than dried peas after nine weeks at sea.  
The difficulty was that Saint Helena lay on the African side of the Atlantic, where the trade winds blew steadily from the south-east. The constancy of those winds meant they were unlikely to encounter calms, but there was no way they could gain the island on their southerly course. Hornblower and the other captains had no choice but to follow the circuitous route proved through centuries of use, sailing south-east until they had passed Saint Helena, then joining the opposite trade wind, which would bear them north-east to the island. It was a test of the navigator’s skill: a slight error could find a ship too far west and unable to gain Saint Helena without repeating the loop. But Hornblower and his sailing master were meticulous in their calculations and together they had achieved a landfall fifty miles south-west of the island, almost the perfect position from which to approach.

“That’s a fine sight, sir,” said Bush, standing by his captain on the quarterdeck. In fact he could barely see the island—at that distance, it was no more than a shadow rising out of a hazy sea—but he was not speaking of Saint Helena so much as the seamanship that had brought them there.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. His momentary smugness forgotten, he was  
thinking of the island and the crops which were said to thrive in its rich volcanic soil: vegetables and heavy-laden vines; fat cattle in the valleys and coffee on the mountain slopes. That would be a fine sight but, at nine or ten knots, it would be hours yet until they arrived. “Hold your course, Mr Prowse,” said Hornblower. “We’ll weather the island and heave-to on the north-eastern side. Mr Clyde, inform Admiral Pellew.”  
“Aye aye sir.”  
“And thank you, Mr Prowse,” said Hornblower.  
“Thank you, sir,” the master replied with a self-satisfied smile. Like some of the hands, he had known Saint Helena in his merchant days, but experience did not diminish his pride in a masterly landfall.  
“We should see James Bay this evening,” Hornblower said to Bush. “What are you looking forward to most?”  
“I’m not much fussed, sir,” said Bush. Bush was one of those unfathomable old salts who almost seemed to prefer beef three months in the cask.  
“I’ve been dreaming of fresh green beans,” Hornblower confessed. “Do you think they grow beans on Saint Helena?”  
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Bush grinned.  
They stood in silence for some time while the hazy shape of Saint Helena slowly grew larger, almost too slowly to be perceived, yet the island seemed to have doubled in size since Hornblower had been watching. Still, he could be watching all day. “Mr Bush, the deck is yours.”  
“Aye aye sir.”  
Hornblower went to the great cabin, where he found Pellew busy with pen and ink.  
“We’ve raised Saint Helena, nor’-west-by-north at fifty miles, sir.” “So I hear,” said Pellew, his quill still moving as he spoke. “I have just  
made a note in my log.” He looked up from his work. “What was that, ten miles off dead reckoning?”  
“Sir, I—“ Hornblower faltered.  
“Ten miles in an entire ocean?” Pellew’s eyes were full of admiration. “That is something to be proud of, captain.”  
Hornblower blushed at the compliment and at his own foolishness. “Sir, I’m sure that Mr Prowse—”  
Pellew silenced him with a look. Prowse may have set the sails and steered the course but Pellew knew that, in such a difficult situation, Hornblower took

every important decision himself. Sometimes Pellew wondered if so capable a man as Hornblower could really be so modest.  
“Thank you, sir,” Hornblower mumbled.  
Pellew looked him up and down. “I expected no less.”

Later, when the masts cast long shadows on the ocean, Pellew joined his officers on deck for the approach to James’ Bay. Many of the hands had stopped to watch, too: perhaps, like Hornblower, they were marvelling at the mysterious jungle and the strange craggy mountains; perhaps they were thinking of the liquor and trinkets and dark-skinned women to be had from the boats that cluster around a ship in port.  
“Coming up to Ladder Hill now, sir,” said Prowse, “and Rupert’s Hill on the left, sir, with the battery beneath it.”  
The hills rose in a steep V with James Town between them, facing onto the bay. Behind was High Knoll, its misty summit almost two thousand feet above the sea; in front the bare masts of ships at anchor.  
“Heave to,” said Pellew. “We will send a boat to notify the governor.” It was important to follow procedure on approaching the island. Saint  
Helena was highly fortified and the governor would doubtless regard three men- of-war as a potential threat until he was certain of their identity. The East India Company’s valuable cargoes made them quick to react at any sign of danger. But Pellew was equally keen for his hosts to identify themselves: a small, highly strategic island like Saint Helena could easily have fallen into enemy hands since he left England and he did not wish to sail his fleet into a trap.  
As it happened, a boat appeared to meet them before Pellew could send his own; the three ships must have been sighted by the signal station on the windward side of the island, for there was no other way the boat could have arrived so quickly. A moment later Hyacinth was being hailed.  
“Frigate ahoy!” The voice was blurred by a speaking trumpet but unmistakably English.  
“Hyacinth, Admiral Pellew,” White returned. “Seeking harbour and  
supplies.”  
There was a brief delay before the boat hailed again. “Proceed.” Then the boat moved off to pilot the three ships to their anchorage.  
The air crackled with cannon as Hyacinth sailed under the battery.  
Hornblower started; it took him a moment to realise they were not under fire: this was the fifteen-gun salute owed to Pellew by all British ports and a sure sign that his ships were welcome at Saint Helena.

That afternoon, an orderly conducted Pellew and Hornblower to Plantation House, the governor’s country residence three miles from James Town.

“Admiral Sir Edward Pellew and Captain Horatio Hornblower,” he announced, bowing out of the room.  
“I am honoured, sir,” said the governor, shaking Pellew’s hand. “Colonel Patton, at your service.”  
Pellew nodded graciously; “Colonel,” said Hornblower, shaking hands in

turn.

“We did not expect to have the pleasure of receiving you, sir,” said Patton.

“I confess I was surprised not to see a larger convoy—or a larger ship. Else we would have received you with greater ceremony, sir.”  
Evidently the governor was as surprised as Pellew had been that the Lords Commissioners should put a rear admiral into a forty-gun frigate. Patton verged on impertinence by pointing it out but, since he spoke honestly and more courteously than many representatives of the East India Company, Pellew did not pounce on him. Instead he told Patton what he had told his son when Pownoll asked why he had been given Hyacinth for a flagship: “Lord Nelson  
raised his flag in the Minerve, and—”  
There was no need to finish. “Of course, sir,” Patton said obligingly.  
Pellew thought it rather unlikely that Patton was familiar with the episode, which had occurred before Nelson’s victory at the Nile, or the fact that the flag involved was merely a commodore’s pennant. But unthinking agreement was exactly what Pellew wanted and the governor seemed embarrassed by his earlier comment, exactly as Pellew had intended. Still, Pellew’s own sensitivity to the ignominy of his command moved him to add, “We left in some haste.” That would also explain the absence of the merchant convoy which customarily accompanied an outbound admiral to eastern waters.  
Patton nodded deferentially and, to his credit, did not enquire further; after all, an admiral could arrive in a row-boat and demand the same respect as if he had sailed in a first rate. Patton knew his duty. “I trust you have had a safe journey so far, sir?” he said.  
“Yes sir,” said Pellew. There was the matter of the three French corvettes which he would have to bring to the governor’s attention but, since they had been last seen sailing west, that could wait until after the exchange of pleasantries.  
Patton, however, spoke to the point. “And how may we be of assistance,

sir?”

“I wish to refill our water-casks,” said Pellew, “and purchase fresh beef,

biscuit, fruits and vegetables—”  
“—Sir, you need only provide a list and you shall have what you need, though the bread will be more difficult. We’ve a shortage of flour at present, you see sir, and with so many ships coming by I have been forced to offer potatoes and yams instead. But I assure you, sir, that these are excellent, as the Company can testify—would that be acceptable to you?”

“Of course,” said Pellew. He would have preferred biscuit—the men certainly would prefer it—but he knew that all the flour on Saint Helena had to be imported, and he could hardly argue with an empty warehouse.  
“I am obliged, sir,” said Patton. “The water can go aboard tomorrow; we’ll need another day to harvest crops and salt the beef—”  
“Of course,” said Pellew. Patton was more than accommodating and Pellew wondered if the governor of Saint Helena received all visitors so generously or if he was perhaps intimidated by the presence of an admiral: as a colonel, Patton was equivalent to Hornblower in rank. But only when they had finished discussing business and adjourned to the parlour for cake and coffee did Pellew realise why Patton was exerting himself so strenuously.  
“And may I say, sir, on the behalf of the Council, how pleased the Company is to have so distinguished a man as yourself for our protector.”  
Pellew replaced his cup on its saucer and stared at the governor. “I beg your pardon?”  
“The news of your appointment was conveyed in the last despatches, sir.”  
So Colonel Patton and every Englishman from here to China thought he was their new commander-in-chief, Pellew realised. Of course the East India Company’s offices in London knew he had been replaced, but word could not yet have reached Saint Helena. Pellew was unsure how to respond; he looked at Hornblower, but Hornblower was looking studiously into his coffee cup. “Indeed,” Pellew replied awkwardly. “Thank you, sir.” He wanted to correct the man—half of him wanted to pour out the whole story about Pitt and Melville and Troubridge as much as the other half of him wanted to pretend it had never happened—but he could not. He was under orders not to disclose his true mission to anyone, lest the French should find out somehow—and, after all, he was commander-in-chief: commander-in-chief of the ‘South East Indies’, as Melville so contemptuously put it.  
Oblivious, Patton simply nodded and reached for the coffee pot. “Coffee,

sir?”

“Please,” said Pellew, though at that moment he would have preferred

something stronger.  
“Yes, thank you,” said Hornblower. He looked at Pellew but said nothing.

“Come in.” It was half way through the first dog watch and Hornblower was in his cabin, pouring over Virgil. When he looked up he saw Pellew, standing stooped in the doorway, his hands behind his back. “Sir.” Hornblower got to his feet, almost hitting his head in his haste.  
“As you were,” said Pellew. They had not seen each other for two days— Pellew had accepted the governor’s invitation to stay at Plantation House, while Hornblower returned to the ship to oversee the filling of casks and the loading of supplies—but it had been only two days and Pellew was amused by the punctilious greeting. He looked lopsidedly at Hornblower. “I’ve just come from

James Town. The men are working most efficiently, I see. I hope to make sail tomorrow morning.”  
“As planned, sir.”  
“Mm.” Pellew could not understand why Hornblower felt compelled to call him ‘sir’ at the slightest mention of ship’s business, even if they were in bed together. “I believe we have all necessary supplies—albeit more yams than I ever thought I’d see on a ship of war—and a few little extras: wine for the New South Wales officials, and ourselves of course. I find, Hornblower, that a good bottle of Madeira can be a very useful thing.”  
Hornblower smiled. “Do they make good Madeira on Saint Helena?”  
“I hear they make a decent drop but no, better still: there was a Portuguese trader here last week—”  
“—I see,” said Hornblower.  
“So I brought back a pipe or two.” Pellew chuckled. “I, ah, also took the liberty of bringing back Mr Bush and Mr Martin.”  
“Up to no good, were they?”  
“No no—merely enjoying themselves. My son, on the other hand…” “Hmm?”  
“Only… taking too great an interest in the black women. Nothing untoward—by God, I hope not!” Pellew interrupted himself, though he did not seem genuinely concerned. “There were fruit-pickers bringing baskets to the dockside, you see, and of course natural curiosity—”  
“Of course,” Hornblower said quickly.  
“Mm. Strange what passes for clothing in warm climates. But Pownoll is back aboard his ship and ready to leave.”  
“As is Captain Walton.”  
“Then we sail tomorrow. However, before I leave…” Pellew presented Hornblower with a calico bag, which he had been concealing behind his back.  
Hornblower took the bag. “What is it?” He smelled the contents before he saw it, though it had been so long since he smelled anything similar that he was slow to recognise the scent: fresh peaches, plump and sweet, still with bright green leaves attached. They could only have been picked that day. “Thank you,” he said, with heartfelt gratitude. After weeks at sea, he craved fruit and vegetables like some men craved drink and debauchery. He had obtained beans while ashore and more watercress than he had seen in his life, before he realised how peppery it was—still, he felt healthier for it—but he could not remember the last time he had bitten into a ripe, juicy peach. He plucked one from the bag and held the velvety globe to his nose.  
Never mind the peaches, the sight was enough to make Pellew’s mouth water—but he soon collected himself. “From the governor’s own orchard,” he declared proudly. “The only peaches on the island free from caterpillar, he told me.”

Hornblower pulled a face; he certainly hoped the peaches were free from caterpillars. “One of those situations where a bottle of Madeira proved useful?”  
“No,” said Pellew. “Though it does help if your host thinks you’re his commander-in-chief.”  
Hornblower hesitated, about to bite into the peach. “You didn’t tell him?” “Not precisely.”  
Hornblower pulled a different face. “What does that mean?”  
“It means he petitioned me to escort half a dozen Indiamen into Bombay. Admiral Linois has been annoying our trade, you see, and since I mentioned the three corvettes, the captains feel that their existing escort might not be adequate.”  
“And what did you say?”  
“I said what I was instructed to say: that there has been a convict rebellion in New South Wales and my immediate orders are to deliver reinforcements.”  
Hornblower nodded. That was the official pretence for the voyage, devised by the Admiralty before the fleet left Portsmouth. They were carrying troops and there had been a rebellion, albeit nothing to justify an admiral’s involvement. It was a poor alibi, perhaps, but hopefully enough to confuse the French, should they get word of British ships in the South Pacific; in a busy port it, it was quite possible that word could spread. As for Colonel Patton, he would know soon enough what the Company’s officials in London knew already, for Troubridge had already sailed for India. Still, Hornblower wondered if Troubridge was not half the reason why Pellew had failed to tell Patton the whole truth; if he wished he were commander-in-chief in the East Indies so dearly that he was willing to pretend that he was.  
Pellew felt compelled to explain himself. “I told him we’d take them as far as the Cape. Well, what else could I say? If we were going to Bombay I could hardly say no, but I can’t go to Bombay—they’d have my neck if I did. You see my dilemma.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. If Pellew agreed to escort the Indiamen to Bombay, he would be violating a direct order of the Admiralty, and that might make his present punishment look mild indeed. There was nothing else he could do, Hornblower decided, and turned his attention once more to the peach.  
“Besides which… besides which…” Pellew began to pace, so far as was possible in such a small space.  
“Mm?” Once again Hornblower hesitated a mere inch from the sweet ripe

fruit.

“Besides which, we cannot afford to have the governor to revoke his

hospitality.” Pellew smiled. “You want to eat that, don’t you?”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. Whether or not it had been obtained by deception, he could resist no longer: he bit into the peach, sending a stream of sweet sticky juice down his arm.

Pellew would gladly have licked it up but again he restrained himself. “There’s more in my cabin,” he said. “Carrots, cabbage, parsnips, leeks... I’ll have Merrick concoct something, if you would like that?”  
“Yes,” Hornblower said, mopping his mouth with his sleeve-cuff; it needed to be washed anyway.

“Very generous of Colonel Patton,” said Hornblower, later that night, as he picked the last of the vegetables out of the soup terrine which had been full when Merrick set it on the table.  
“I’ll be sure to remember his generosity in my report to the Lords Commissioners,” said Pellew. “Perhaps then he’ll be willing to forgive me for my trifling sleight of hand.”  
“You’re going to tell Lord Melville about a bunch of carrots?” Hornblower’s smile betrayed the fact that he was not speaking seriously.  
“Horatio, don’t be perverse. I’m sure the governor would have extended equal courtesy to any British ship.”  
“Mm.”  
“Would you like some more pie?” Pellew seized the opportunity to change the topic. “Or are you going to eat like a barnyard animal?” He had not failed to notice Hornblower picking parsnip out of the soup.  
“No thank you.” Hornblower smiled contentedly and pushed the terrine back into the centre of the table. There was nothing left but stock.  
“Try some of this, then.” Pellew reached for one of the bottles he had bought in James Town.  
Hornblower drank. “Very sweet.”  
“Mm. It would go well with pudding, I think… ah-hah!”  
At that point, Merrick came in with another platter. He whisked away the silver lid to reveal an apple pie, golden brown and fresh from the oven.  
“My my,” said Pellew. “Very impressive, Merrick.”  
“Sir,” the steward replied with his usual lack of expression; unlike most of Pellew’s previous stewards, Hornblower could not even tell if Merrick was pleased or not, and he suspected Edward couldn’t tell either. Perhaps the answer was that Merrick was never particularly pleased about anything; still, he was discerning enough to be a good cook. “Shall I slice the pie, sir?” he offered.  
“I’ll do it, Merrick,” said Pellew, and the steward promptly departed. “Horatio?”  
“Please.”  
Pellew served two large and rather sloppy slices of pie. “On second thoughts, why go to Port Jackson?” he quipped; the moist filling steamed deliciously. “We might stay here and eat for the next year or two!”  
Hornblower rolled his eyes. “If we do that, it won’t be just one inch in your breeches.”

“Yes, of course.” Pellew almost coughed the words into his napkin; he was embarrassed. “On second thoughts, perhaps I’d better cut a smaller piece.”  
“Don’t be foolish,” said Hornblower. He reached under the table to pat Edward’s knee. “You look well.”  
“Thank you, Horatio.” Pellew was flattered but flustered.  
They ate, mostly in silence, often exchanging glances over a spoonful of steaming pie. “More?” Hornblower offered, when their plates were empty.  
“Not for me—I had too much of the other.”  
Hornblower smiled and served himself another slice, which he ate in large mouthfuls now that it was cooler.  
“I hope you do not regret declining the governor’s invitation to sleep on shore?” said Pellew.  
“Why should I regret it?” Hornblower popped a stray piece of apple into his mouth.  
“Well… very fine meals, for one thing, and slightly more spacious accommodation.”  
“I’m used to my cabin.” Hornblower smiled again. “One might say it’s

cosy.”

“One might say something else! Besides which, it’s good for a man to have

a change of scene, once in a while.” Pellew cleared his throat. “But all I can offer you is my own sleeping quarters, and there’s a problem with that.”  
Hornblower was puzzled. “Yes?”  
“Well, you would have to share with me.” In case his meaning was not sufficiently clear, Pellew’s eyebrows switched twice, up and down.  
“I see.” Hornblower laughed. “If that is the case, sir, I would be very glad of the change of scene.” He swallowed his last mouthful of pie and rose. He stood behind Edward and began to rub his shoulders.  
Pellew tipped his head back. “And I would be very glad as well.”  
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Then, without exchanging a word, they retreated to Pellew’s sleeping cabin, leaving half a pie and two glasses of wine unfinished on the table.  
“Are you sure you would not have liked to go ashore?” Pellew asked as he stripped off his stockings and breeches.  
“I did go ashore. I was curious to see the island—”  
“—No.” Pellew shook his head. “I mean… for the kind of entertainments  
that we may presume Mr Bush and Mr Martin were indulging in.” “Oh.” Hornblower shook his head, blushing slightly. “No.” “No?” Pellew touched Hornblower’s chin.  
“No.” As he spoke, Hornblower’s breeches dropped to the floor, leaving him in just his shirt. “I would much rather be here.”  
“And I must be dreaming,” Pellew breathed. The climate fifteen degrees south was considerably cooler than the equator, but he felt hot and bothered already.

Hornblower put his arms around Pellew’s neck and met his lips with a warm, generous kiss. “Was that a dream?” he asked after a minute.  
“I think so,” Pellew said shakily.  
“In that case—since you’re asleep—you ought to be in bed.” Before Pellew knew what was happening, Hornblower had pushed him back onto the cot and sprung on top of him. One of the jute strands that suspended the cot snapped with the impact.  
“God,” Pellew gasped, stunned and half winded and very much aroused.  
Hornblower glanced at the ropes. “I think it will hold.” “It had better, for I don’t think I will.”  
“Oh dear.” Hornblower smiled mischievously at the man still pinioned beneath him. “Would it help if I held you?” he asked playfully, and reached between their bodies to seize Edward’s prick.  
“I think… a most perilous… position…” Pellew stammered incomprehensibly as he thrust against his lover’s hand; hips against his body.  
Hornblower laughed. “On second thoughts, I am not impressed by these sleeping quarters.”  
“How so?” Pellew gulped, going red in the face as he strained against the blessed weight of Horatio’s body.  
“Well…” Hornblower peered down at his prostrate lover with a constricted little smile. “It seems that someone has put a pea beneath my mattress!”  
“Hornblower, what is the matter with you?” Pellew grunted. “Do you have scurvy? You talk of nothing but vegetables—”  
“No no.” Hornblower shook his head so his loose curls spilled into his eyes. “I can feel it quite distinctly.”  
Pellew’s brow puckered in exhausted exasperation. “What on earth—” he began but when Hornblower gave him a firm squeeze he understood well enough. “Don’t you dare call that a pea!” he wheezed. “That, Horatio, is a very… large… leek.”

“Captain Hornblower, sir?”  
Hornblower turned and saw the admiral’s steward standing just behind him, offering a cup of coffee.  
“Something to warm you, sir,” said Merrick.  
“Thank you,” Hornblower replied, with genuine gratitude. He withdrew his hands from his coat pockets, where they had grown numb anyway, and accepted the cup. It felt like a hot coal by comparison.  
“Sir.” Merrick bent slightly in a salute then went below, clutching his coat at his neck and moving with an unsteady gait. Pellew’s steward was not at all fond of the cold or the rollicking rolling sea.  
Hornblower drank his coffee quickly, before it could grow cold and before he had a chance to spill it down the front of his watch coat when the ship heeled

unexpectedly. He was grateful to Merrick and above all to Edward, whom he knew must have sent him. Though the admiral was yet to make his customary appearance on deck that day, he would have known how cold it was outside from how cold it was below decks. Three weeks ago they had passed the Cape of Good Hope and parted company with the India convoy. They were cruising at forty degrees south, where the sea was wild, the air icy and the strong westerly driving them forth seemed to drive into every cranny in the ship. Hornblower was pleased with their progress—almost too good—but he did not enjoy the cold.  
Even in his warmest woollens and a thick oilskin, his long stints on deck were bitterly cold and wet. He could only imagine how that wind must sting the men, who did not have the luxury of good heavy coats.  
When he had finished his coffee, Hornblower paced the deck, as he had done for most of the morning. The habit was almost unconscious now—perhaps it was a bad habit—but it kept him warmer than when he stood still. Sometimes he watched the men: some of them had made a ball out of coiled rope and were kicking it about to keep warm, some were hunched into themselves and some huddled in the lee of whatever structure was to hand. But mostly he watched the sea and the sky—the grey sea and the grey sky—which was all he could see in any direction and all he had seen for days. The monotony was profound, as though there were no world beyond the endless grey. He actually bore it better for the cold; the struggle to keep himself warm filled the vacuum of all other thoughts.  
At any rate the cold was not so bad as the dreadful heat of the days they had spent becalmed. Fast straight sailing, no matter how far, was not nearly as dreary as the doldrums.  
Hornblower paced back and forth, aware all the time of the roaring wind and the harping rig and the knots they must be making; wishing there were some place to put the cup down without it rolling about and breaking, for it was Pellew’s bone china and thoroughly unsuited to a ship’s deck on a stormy sea.  
Then he looked again at the men, shuffling about in their tarpaulins. It would be noon soon, he realised when seven bells struck; he could not have guessed from the cloud-shrouded sky. At noon, the men huddling and hunching on deck could go below, to be replaced by fresh warm bodies, and Hornblower would go below too.  
“Hornblower?”  
He turned. It was Pellew. “Edward—sir,” he corrected himself. Pellew smiled for a moment then set his face set against the wind;  
squinting, almost grimacing. “I heard you skulking about up here—at first I thought it might be loose shot, but no… no, it’s Captain Hornblower, determined to catch a chill.”  
Hornblower rolled his eyes in a manner that would have been blatantly insubordinate, were Edward any other admiral. “The air is a little fresh, yes, but we’re closer to the tropics than we were in England.”

“Technically, perhaps, but in this gale…” Pellew turned to windward and let the westerly blast his face. When he turned back, his nose and cheeks were crimson while the rest of his face was blanched, and only a firm hand held his enormous unweatherly hat upon his head. “Why don’t you come below, Horatio?” he said, dropping what pretence at formality months at sea had not already worn away. But the wind whisked his words away almost before they reached Hornblower’s ears; he might have recited love poetry, there on the poop deck, and no-one would have known. “Stop freezing yourself—there’s nothing to see but an empty ocean.”  
“I’ll come below when the next watch is called.”  
“Very stoical,” Pellew teased, “but what if I were to tell you that your incessant stomping about was giving your admiral a headache?” He caught Hornblower’s eyes. “Hmm?”  
Relenting, Hornblower laughed; the smile cracked his lips. “Then I would go below immediately.”  
“Thank you, captain.” Pellew led the way to the great cabin.  
Inside, with the door closed, the blood rushed into Hornblower’s cheeks and he found he could feel his fingers again. He could hear better, too: going below felt something like going deaf, for the world was so much quieter without the constant rush of wind in his ears.  
“That’s better, isn’t?”  
Hornblower nodded. Then he realised that he was still holding the coffee cup; the porcelain was ice cold. “I forgot to say—thank you for the coffee.”  
“You hardly need thank me—but needless to say Merrick grumbled when I told him to take it up.”  
“He ought to be grateful he’s not one of the ratings.”  
“He will be if he continues to grumble,” Pellew grunted, but Hornblower could tell he spoke in jest. “He ought to be the captain’s steward, too, if I tell him to be—speaking of which, would you like another?”  
Hornblower frowned. “Steward?” Things had not ended well with the last steward Pellew had given him.  
“Coffee, you fatuous creature!” Pellew’s hand twitched, wanting to touch  
him, but he checked himself.  
“Oh.” Hornblower blinked. “Would that be decadence?”  
“Horatio, you are not in the least decadent—and what a shame, I say.” Pellew called his steward and asked for more coffee. “I think you would look very well in silk robes and diadem,” he said once Merrick had left. “When you are a rich man—be it prize money or perhaps a small princedom—what will you do with your fortune?” Pellew chuckled. “You’d be hard pressed to spent the lot on a new uniform, but gambling, on the other hand…”  
Hornblower was torturing his chapped lip again, smiling at the idea of being a rich princeling in some strange part of the world—the Indies, perhaps, or even New Holland, if the continent lived up to Banks’ estimate. “I have no idea,”

he admitted. “I felt I had acquired a great fortune when I became captain of the  
Hotspur. Already I have more than I know what to do with.”  
Pellew laughed. “A pittance, in other words? No… I mean no disrespect, Horatio, believe me, but once you have a home to maintain and—dare I say it—a family, I venture you’ll not find your eleven pound a month so difficult to dispose of! But come now, let’s not talk of such vulgar things—here’s coffee.”  
“All right.” Hornblower was relieved not to speak of having a family: the notion was somehow ridiculous, not because it was abhorrent but because it hardly seemed possible that a wife and children would ever intrude upon the life he had lived for twelve years as a naval officer; seven as Edward’s lover. On the other hand, Edward had a home and family: Pygmalion’s captain, following two hundred fathoms astern, was proof of that. Suddenly Hornblower found himself in gooseflesh again, but Pellew spoke of other things—coffee, crumpets, and all the comforts of a cold day—and, as he sipped the hot brew, Hornblower found himself relaxing once more into the pleasures of the present.  
“You might spend it on coffee,” Pellew said, some minutes later, as he watched Hornblower refill his cup.  
“Sorry?”  
“Your fortune, when you have one.”  
Hornblower laughed. He was undeniably fond of coffee.  
“Might even have your own plantation,” Pellew mused. “In Saint Helena, perhaps—Patton told me it grows very well there—or Jamaica: acres of coffee vines, and a big straw hat.” Then he frowned. “Does coffee grown on vines?”  
“No.” Hornblower smiled fondly. “Bushes, I think.”  
“Ah, I must be thinking of my own weakness: wine grows on vines.” Hornblower laughed again. “Edward, you’re… peculiar.”  
“I don’t see how.” “Coffee plantations?”  
“Well…” Pellew laughed too. “It’s a warming thought, don’t you think?” “Yes,” said Hornblower. “But I still can’t feel my nose.”  
“Oh dear.” Then Pellew took the younger man by surprise and kissed the tip of it. “Just like an icicle—and your poor lip, too!” But he pulled back abruptly when he heard his steward enter behind them. “Ah, Merrick! Dinner time, I see.”

A week later the sky was blue but the wind had blown up a knot or two and Hyacinth was making better time than anyone had hoped; better than the sloops could keep up with.  
“We’re going to lose Hotspur, sir,” Bush said to his captain. The twenty- gun sloop had slipped almost out of signalling distance, even with a clear sky; should a fog arise overnight, she could be lost completely.  
“Take a reef,” said Hornblower.

The hands were piped aloft. “Easy now,” Matthews called to a brace of men as they scurried to the mizzen top. “You want to watch your footing, in this wind.”  
Hornblower nodded to himself. Of course the men were working hastily: the afternoon belied the bitter cold, which only bit harder a hundred feet aloft, but haste would make the work more dangerous. Topsails were reefed without incident, however, and Hornblower watched with satisfaction as the gap between Hotspur and Hyacinth slowly began to close.  
Meanwhile Pygmalion had been keeping pace between the two ships but  
drifting slightly to leeward. She had been forced to tack once already in order to recover formation. Hornblower could not help but suspect lazy seamanship, try as he might for the father’s sake to make excuses for the son. But, when the next morning dawned with Pygmalion almost a mile north of where she ought to have been, Hornblower felt obliged to draw the admiral’s attention. “The wind’s more southerly this morning, sir,” he said, hoping to sound as though he were merely remarking on the weather.  
Pellew took no time to take the hint. “What in God’s name is he doing over there?” he blustered. Hornblower had tried to be subtle but he might as well have waved his arms in the air and pointed at Pygmalion.  
“The ships are not quite matched for speed, sir,” Hornblower replied tactfully, but his efforts were wasted on Pellew, who knew as well as he that any differences between the three ships could be readily compensated for and should have been compensated for, as he had done when shortening sail the previous afternoon.  
“The boy should be able to hold his course,” Pellew grumbled. His nostrils flared as he drew a sharp breath; in his opinion there was no excuse.  
Hornblower was surprised, for he had expected Pellew to defend his son; instead, Pellew seemed to take a dimmer view because his son was responsible.  
Hornblower was reminded then of how little he knew about Edward’s relationship with Pownoll, and fathers and sons in general; he had certainly never understood his own father, when he was alive.  
“Signal Pygmalion to maintain her position,” Pellew said crisply.  
“Aye sir.” Sommers ran up the signal without delay. After nearly three months at sea, he had learned the signal book by heart.  
“She’s coming back in, sir,” Orrock reported, even before Pygmalion had  
acknowledged the signal.  
“I’m not surprised,” Pellew muttered. “But he should have tacked long ago.” The sun had been up an hour.  
Then Pygmalion sent another signal, and another. Without his glass,  
Hornblower had no hope of reading the flags; he hoped the unsolicited message was not beyond Sommers’ abilities.  
He did not disappoint. “She says sorry, sir, but the sailing master is ill,  
sir.”

Hornblower and Pellew exchanged a glance. Save for a few minor ailments, the fleet had enjoyed good health since leaving Portsmouth; this was the first they had heard of illness on Pygmalion.  
“And he tells us this now?” Pellew mumbled to himself. It was no excuse and now he had sickness to worry about, besides Pownoll’s middling display of navigation.  
“Ask what ails him, Mr Sommers,” said Hornblower.  
“Aye sir.” A few minutes later, the response came. “Dysentery, sir. He’s getting better, sir.”  
“Tell him to keep me informed,” said Pellew, speaking directly to the midshipman. Then he turned to Hornblower. “Dysentery? Have we had any difficulty with the supplies from Saint Helena?”  
“No sir,” said Hornblower. “Not even the yams.” Hornblower had soon discovered he did not like yams, but he stopped himself from smiling when he saw that Pellew was not.  
“I would have expected to see any problems long before now.” Pellew folded his arms behind his back. “Still… Bad luck, I suppose. One must expect as much, in strange ports. Next time I will insist on biscuit.”  
Hornblower said nothing; he never knew what to say when Edward was in a black mood.  
“Mm.” Pellew went to the railing and watched Pygmalion slowly fall back  
in line with the flagship. “But not too serious, it sounds.” He was talking to himself; Hornblower waited some time before venturing to stand at his side. “He’ll be back with Hotspur by the time he’s done tacking,” Pellew said when he did.  
“Probably, sir,” said Hornblower. The sloop was falling behind as she tacked south-east across the strong south-westerly wind. “But not for long.” Pygmalion was a faster sailer than Hotspur. “Are you vexed?” Hornblower asked quietly.  
“Well, I’ll not rebuke him too strongly.” Pellew was not angry but he was disappointed—understandably so, Hornblower thought. He would have been disappointed with himself, had he made such a slip; then again, he never would.

“Pygmalion reports that the master has made a full recovery,” Hornblower said when he dined with Pellew a few days later.  
“I’m glad to hear it.” Pellew sipped his wine. “And the others?” He had ordered medical reports from all three ships.  
“Nothing serious,” said Hornblower. “The carpenter’s mate has an infection of the eye, which the surgeon says is clearing up—”  
“Good. Can’t afford a blind carpenter—who knows what might happen.” “No.” Hornblower smiled; he could afford to smile, because he had good  
news to report: there had been no casualties in over a hundred days at sea. The most serious illness on Hyacinth was Mr Aitken, lieutenant of marines, with a

suspected case of syphilis, but Pellew already knew about that. “There was also a case of scurvy suspected on Hotspur—”  
“Yes?” Pellew’s eyes narrowed impatiently. “It turned out to be a rotten tooth.”  
“Ah. Then that is good news, too—painful perhaps, but good news.” So long as no infection set in, a rotten tooth was a trifle. Pellew was relieved, but then again he would have been surprised if there were scurvy on any of his ships, for he had been very careful to ensure that his fleet was well-provisioned with preserved lime juice and fresh food from Saint Helena. Now, just a week or two from Port Jackson, he could pronounce the voyage blessed with good health and good spirits as well: aside from the odd mess deck quarrel and the kind of minor complaint that might as easily occur in a ship or out of it, there had been little for himself or his captains to worry about besides reaching their destination. For that, he was immensely grateful. “May our good luck continue,” he told Hornblower. Then he rapped his knuckles sharply on the table top. “There’s not long to go now.”  
Hornblower nodded. There was an expectant air about the whole ship.  
Landfall was expected the next morning after a month of strong winds and thousands of miles of empty ocean. He cut another slice of the slimy stewed beef they were eating and chewed it with a sup of wine; the meat was more palatable that way and the wine was in danger of spilling as the ship rolled on the steep swell. “I wish we knew more about these waters,” he said. In fact, no-one could be completely sure what land they would sight the next morning, or if they would sight land at all. For the past week, the fleet had been sailing south of the continent without ever seeing it. Three days ago, they had passed the longitude where the coast of New Holland ceased to be marked on English maps and terra australis incognita began. The Admiralty chart resumed at 145º east of Greenwich but, even then, comparison with the French map suggested one or both must be incorrect: according to the French hydrographer, if they continued to sail along their present latitude of forty degrees south, they would encounter the island which marked the western entrance to Bass’ Strait. That island, while known to English whalers and named King’s Island in 1801, was not marked on the Admiralty chart. Pellew planned to follow the strait but, if an island the size of King’s Island could be omitted on the Admiralty charts, it was possible that his ships might fall foul of some other uncharted rock or dangerous shoal.  
Hornblower was anxious as they approached the final leg of their voyage. It would be more fraught than rounding the Cape, for there was less sea-room and not one man aboard who had sailed in these waters before. “Do you still wish to follow the strait?” he asked, knowing full well that Pellew would not have changed his mind.  
“Are you suggesting otherwise?” Pellew frowned. The only alternative was to circumnavigate Van Diemen’s Land, which would take a week at least.

“No.” Hornblower shook his head. “But I hope we can trust our bearings.” A landfall off King’s Island the following morning would be only a partial test of the French chart: it would establish the position of the island but not of any unknown rocks that had escaped the eye of hydrographers from both sides of the English Channel.  
“I am confident that we may,” Pellew replied calmly. He was inclined to trust the French where the English charts were silent, for they agreed in every other respect and Pellew’s logic suggested that, since the islands off the eastern cape of Van Diemen’s Land were correctly marked, the island off the western cape would be as well. Moreover, both charts tallied with Matthew Flinders’ observations and Pellew had every confidence in Flinders; it was a great shame that his most recent work had been locked up with him on Mauritius. But Bass’ Strait had been used by British ships since Flinders discovered it in 1798; if they followed the established channel and were mindful of leeway, they would be relatively safe. “There is an element of risk in any voyage,” he told Hornblower, “but I never thought you averse to a well-calculated risk, captain.”  
“No sir.” “Horatio—”  
“—Edward.” Hornblower smiled. Pellew was right, of course: he might vacillate privately, but he would not stray from the plan which had been laid down before they left Portsmouth; indeed, were it not for the two conflicting charts, he would not have given the matter a second thought. He would have been happier, however, if they had a calmer sea. Hyacinth heeled again and now his glass did tumble, while Pellew restrained his with a well-practised hand.  
“Damn,” Hornblower muttered, dabbing at the tablecloth with his napkin. “That swell’s rising—and the wind too.”  
Both men observed for a minute while the ship rocked side to side and bucked bow to stern. Hornblower was fortunate not to have been sea-sick when they rounded the Cape, but if the ship continued to toss he might well be ill in Bass’ Strait.  
“We’ll have to shorten sail,” said Hornblower. The wind was gusting over forty knots and Hyacinth was under storm canvas already.  
“You’re going above?”  
“Yes.” Hornblower rose and tucked his hat under his arm. “Excuse me.” Moving from the warm bright cabin to the cold dark deck, Hornblower changed from friend and lover to ship’s captain as swiftly as a pantomime actor switched masks between scenes. He pulled his hat firmly down on his head and  
made his way cautiously up the companion to join Bush. He held onto the railing; even so, he half expected to land on his hands and knees with every step he took on the slippery wet deck.  
“Captain,” Bush said when he identified the figure staggering towards him. “I just sent to you—we’re about to shorten sail.”

Hornblower nodded. He was pleased that Bush had already taken action, since he and the messenger had evidently missed each other in the dark; he was pleased that Bush had chosen to remain on deck for this dangerous part of the journey even though, as first lieutenant, he was excused from keeping watch. “Thank you, Mr Bush.”  
Hornblower watched the hands assemble and climb like shadows into the night. The ship reeled and the harsh wind snatched at what it could. For one moment, a young sailor was left clinging one-handed to his life when Hyacinth heeled to leeward and the shrouds slackened, flinging him out over the surging sea. All Hornblower could do was hold the companion rail and watch in slowed time as the groaning ship righted itself and the young man scrambled to the maintop. Somehow he went on with his work as though nothing had happened; it was Hornblower who was dizzy. For an instant he was on Papillon, ten years earlier, when he stood on her topyard with the whole world spinning below him. The memory chilled him as surely as the cold—but only when the sails were reefed and the hands safe below did Hornblower realise he was shivering or that his eyes stung with the salt water that now soaked his uniform. He wished he had thought to bring his boat cloak, but he had thought only of his ship. He let out a held breath. At least the rigging did not creak so raucously now or the timbers complain so loudly, but there was nothing he could do about the heaving deck.  
“A rough night sir,” said Bush, unperturbed.  
“Yes,” Hornblower was replying, when the salt wash rushed over him again, drenching him and filling his mouth with brine. But he merely blinked and finished, “She’s riding easier now.” He hoped that he sounded as comfortable as Bush.  
Hornblower remained on deck until he was sure that his ship was safe. At first he stood beside Bush, watching the black water cut to ribbons in the frigate’s wake. Then he paced the poop deck, as he had done for most of the day; for most of the past few weeks. It was too cold to stand still and walking kept his aching feet from going completely numb, but he was fearful of losing his balance. He would be ashamed to fall and find himself flat on his face while Bush remained steady on his feet.  
Bush. Bush was the other reason why Hornblower walked the deck. For almost ten minutes they had stood side by side and hardly said a word to each other. To stagger over the convulsing deck was less awkward than to continue standing there, not knowing what to say to Bush, whom he still thought of as a close friend but to whom he had spoken nothing but small talk and ship’s business for weeks on end. Bush did not even play cards, so he did not take part in the games Hornblower played with his officers, and Hornblower spent almost every other evening with Pellew. That was the main reason, Hornblower knew, yet every time he planned to sit with Bush and talk about whatever it was that they used to talk about, he would find some task to attend to, or someone would

propose a game of cards, or he would catch Edward’s eye and end up spending another evening in the admiral’s cabin. He had made the distance between them, Hornblower told himself, but Bush had helped too. Hornblower looked at him, standing so still that he might have been carved from the same oak as the ship, with his glass under his arm and a sou’wester tied under his chin. Hornblower could not remember the last time Bush had addressed him as a friend rather than a commanding officer; he wished Bush would call him ‘Hornblower’ or even ‘Horatio’, not always ‘captain’, and that he might call Bush ‘William’ as he once used to do. Hornblower regretted that Pellew’s presence and Bush’s professionalism had caused him and his lieutenant to drift apart; he suspected he had regretted it for weeks, though he only realised now as he and Bush stood on the poop deck, together but alone.  
Hornblower stopped pacing and stood next to Bush. “Mr Martin beat me at cards last night. Did he tell you?”  
“Yes sir,” said Bush. “He said you had a poor hand, sir.” Hornblower made himself laugh. “I fear I played a poor hand, too.” Bush almost smiled. “Surely not, sir.”  
“At any rate Mr Martin played a good one.” Now Bush did smile. “He said that too, sir.”  
Hornblower laughed again. “You’re clearly well-informed, Mr Bush— could you be convinced to try your own hand one evening?”  
“I’ve tried, sir, and I fear I’m not worth the trouble: apparently there’s such a thing as too good a loser.”  
“How so?”  
“Someone told me once that a good opponent doesn’t just lose his bets.  
There has to be some sport in beating him.”  
Hornblower sighed, but at least Bush had managed one sentence without saying ‘sir’. He summoned a numb smile. “William…”  
“Sir?” Bush seemed surprised to hear his given name. Perhaps he had forgotten that he had one; Hornblower nearly forgot his own sometimes, when Edward was not around to remind him.  
“I…” Now that he had caught Bush’s attention, Hornblower realised that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He knew that he wanted to say something but, as moments passed without words, he worried that he had nothing to say at all. He could not speak of navigational matters, for they had spoken of little else for weeks, and that was precisely the sort of thing he did not want to speak about now; nor could he ask Bush if he was looking forward to seeing Port Jackson, for he must have asked the same question a dozen times before. Instead Hornblower found himself saying, without really knowing why, “Yourself and Mr Martin… you get along well.” It was not quite a question.  
“Of course, sir,” said Bush; once again he sounded surprised.  
Damn it, Hornblower thought; he had no idea what response he had expected but he wished Bush would not sound so surprised at the sound of his

own Christian name or the fact that his captain was speaking of something other than charts and winds and course changes. “Ah… good,” said Hornblower, for want anything else to say and wishing he had not said anything at all. It was a strange question and none of his business, Hornblower reminded himself, much as he wished that he and Bush could converse as easily as Bush and Martin.  
Bush nodded slightly. A few minutes passed before he asked, “I trust sir… yourself and the admiral…”  
Those words made Hornblower’s heart beat in triplicate before he realised Bush knew nothing; he spoke hesitantly only because he did not feel comfortable making private conversation with his commanding officer. That saddened Hornblower even as it salved his initial fears. Bush understood, as he did, that Pellew’s presence had affected their friendship, but he did not understand the full nature of the friendship between captain and admiral. “Yes,” Hornblower replied, almost sighing the word; his teeth chattered with his escaping breath.  
“Sir?” There was concern in Bush’s pallid face. “You must be cold, without your coat.”  
Hornblower would have smiled but his lips were entirely numb. “Only a little chilly.”  
“Should you wish to go below, sir—” Bush cut himself off, lest in his solicitude he should speak out of line.  
Hornblower wished he knew how to tell Bush that dutiful deference was not always necessary—that he might err on the side of friendship rather than formality—but rank and title were so deeply ingrained in Bush’s consciousness that Hornblower feared such words would only give offence. Instead he did what he had done too many times already and left the problem for another day. He was shivering and, much as he wanted to talk to Bush, he longed for the warmth and companionship that Edward’s cabin promised.  
“Sir?”  
“Thank you—I’ll go below.” Hornblower touched his lieutenant on the shoulder, in a shy show of friendship. “Take care of her, Mr Bush.”  
“Aye sir,” Bush replied, as properly as ever, but Hornblower was pleased to see he had relaxed a little. Then, moving as carefully as he could with numb feet and numb hands, Hornblower went below.  
“Horatio, you’re drenched!” Pellew said when he saw him. “Is it raining?” “No, not from the sky, at any rate.” Hornblower shivered. “It’s not  
pleasant up there.”  
“Not at all, from the look of things.” Pellew ran his eyes up and down the captain’s sodden form. His wet trousers clung to his legs, betraying the skinny body beneath. “You must be freezing,” he said. Pellew had been sitting comfortably in his cosy cabin for the hour or so that Hornblower had been on deck.  
“Yes.” Hornblower took off his hat and wet jacket. Again he shivered; it had been foolish to go on deck without a proper coat.

“Here,” said Pellew, coming forward with his own dressing gown and wrapping it around Hornblower’s shoulders. “Now, I had Merrick leave your stew, or would you prefer a hot drink?”  
Hornblower eyed the single plate on the stained tablecloth: the remains of what had been his supper, now cold and congealed. His expression told Pellew that he did not want it.  
“In that case, drink this.” Pellew handed him a very generous glass of brandy.  
“Thank you.” Hornblower drank keenly, glad for once of the way the spirit burned as ran down his throat and the warm drowsy feeling that followed. How kind Edward was, he thought as he drank a second glass; how snug the cabin looked with the windows all fogged over and filled with diffused light.  
“She’s settled down,” said Pellew. He was still on his feet, standing by the frosted panes. He rubbed a clear patch with his sleeve cuff and looked through his cupped hands, but he could only see darkness. “I only hope the rest of our little fleet is bearing up.”  
No doubt he was thinking of his son, who had strayed off course in calmer conditions than these. Hornblower watched the brandy changing level in his glass, knowing that it was not the liquid shifting but the ship around it. “Any captain knows to shed canvas in a squall.”  
“Even a hot-headed young captain?”  
“I wasn’t twenty when you gave me La Reve,” said Hornblower; the weather on that occasion had been the least of his worries.  
“Never mind that you sailed into the middle of the Spanish fleet.” Pellew turned from the window, his eyes full of nostalgic pride. “No, you were never hot-headed.”  
Hornblower put his empty glass on the table. “Certainly not now.” He felt light-headed rather than hot-headed and he was still covered in goose skin beneath his damp uniform.  
Pellew was at his side in a moment. “Are you still cold, Horatio?” He laid his palm on Hornblower’s forehead, then his wet hair.  
Hornblower smiled. “There’s no need to fuss over me like an invalid.” “I need to fuss over you so you don’t find yourself an invalid.”  
Hornblower looked into Pellew’s eyes—eyes so large and so dark that they reflected the candles on the table as separate points of light. Cold and weary and half drunk, Hornblower was mesmerised. “Do you think you can thaw me?” he murmured.  
“Well, I just gave you a quarter-pint of brandy, that’s the best medicine I know.”  
“I think I know a better way.” Hornblower grabbed Pellew’s hand and pulled him closer, so he could lean against him. “You’re nice and warm.”  
Pellew understood. “Well, we’d better start by getting you out of these wet things.”

“Yes,” said Hornblower, but he did little to assist when Pellew tried to undress him. Instead he wriggled when he should have stood still, went limp when he ought to have raised his arms and stole kisses while Edward struggled with his buttons.  
“You’re impossible,” Pellew laughed in happy frustration. By the time he had stripped Hornblower down to his shirt, the sluggish cold captain had been transformed into something lithe and affectionate and warm. Only his feet remained to be thawed.  
“Hurry up,” said Hornblower, sitting on the cot and swinging his legs back and forth while Pellew shed his clothes. He realised how childish he sounded but he was too drunk to care. “If you didn’t wear all those ridiculous clothes, it wouldn’t take you so long to undress.”  
“Ah, but if you were to help me, instead of sitting there looking pretty, it  
would not take me so long—wretched buttons!” Pellew muttered to himself.  
Hornblower could not think of a rejoinder, for Edward had disarmed him with his comment. Did he really look pretty, Hornblower wondered, looking down at his own legs; they were certainly not as impressive as the fine hams revealed when Edward stripped off his stockings.  
“At any rate,” said Pellew, huffing as he hunched to reach his other foot, “I don’t know what you’re so impatient for.” He got the stocking off and looked at Hornblower. “Surely you’re sick of the sight of me by now.”  
Hornblower shook his head. He must be mad, Pellew thought; he,  
however, would never tire of Hornblower.  
At last Pellew had his clothes off, too. He slipped his nightshirt over his head—a silly silken thing with embroidery about the neck and cuffs for which he said his wife was entirely responsible; one of the few times he spoke to Hornblower of his wife. “Ready,” he announced, feeling just as silly as he looked.  
Hornblower had to laugh before grabbing him in a playful kiss. “Now what are we going to do?” He slid one hand beneath the hem of Edward’s nightshirt and up between his legs. “Are we going to do this?” He gave a gentle tug.  
“We did that last time,” Pellew stammered, already red-faced. He cleared his throat and made his retort. “What about this?” Pesky fingers burrowed into Hornblower’s armpits.  
“Not that!” Hornblower cried, pulling away and laughing despite himself. “Then what about this?” Pellew suggested, slipping a hand between his  
lover’s legs.  
“We did that last time, too.”  
“Mm. But I think we should do it again.” He squeezed a little harder. “Really, we needn’t,” Hornblower gasped, seizing Edward’s shoulders  
through his silky nightshirt.  
“I don’t know about that, Horatio. I think it wants me to.” Hornblower gasped in reply.

“I think it’s helping,” Pellew added. “I think the circulation is returning.  
You don’t feel so cold anymore—am I right?”  
“Much better,” Hornblower grunted. His circulation had not only returned, it had been redirected.  
“In that case, I shall have to continue.”  
Hornblower squeezed his eyes shut, expecting some sort of torturous ravishing. But, rather than continue to grope him, Pellew picked him up and carried him effortlessly to the cot. He set him down so the canvas sunk in the middle and Hornblower’s legs splayed with his feet sticking out. It was not a dignified position but it suited Pellew’s purposes. He stooped a little, so they were almost at eye-level. “Comfortable?”  
Hornblower nodded. “Warm enough?”  
He nodded again. “Except for my feet.”  
“Indeed?” Pellew’s quick eyes flicked from Hornblower’s expectant face to his cold toes, clenched together for warmth. “You should wear bed socks,” he said.  
“I have been.”  
“But not now.” Pellew dropped to his knees and took one foot in hand. Hornblower squirmed in anticipation. “Edward, please, don’t tickle—” “I’m not going to. Well, not very much.” Pellew lifted his foot and kissed  
it, just behind the toes. Then he began to rub the sole, which was cold and stiff from hours spent on an unsteady deck.  
Hornblower wriggled again, grinning and grimacing; he was not sure whether Edward’s touch was pleasant or painful. “Don’t they smell?”  
“Not at all, my love. You have very clean white feet.”  
How that was possible after spending all day on deck, Hornblower did not know, but Edward did not seem to mind and he protested no longer. He let Edward rub his feet until his whole body relaxed from the bottom up; his whole body except for one part, which was becoming jealous of the attention.  
“Oh!” Hornblower gasped when Edward traced his thumb over the instep of his foot. “No,” he protested, but let him tickle, just for an instant. He loved Edward more than he could say, he thought—or felt rather than thought—as euphoria rushed over him like the wash of a warm sea. He was swimming when Edward touched him, even when he tickled him, and drowning when he kissed him. He could not understand what had happened at the equator to make him agitated and irritable; he could hardly remember it, for he had enjoyed every moment since that he had spent with Edward. If the past months had been monotonous, it was a pleasant kind of monotony—and yet not monotonous, for even now Edward was making new discoveries between the contours of the map: the sensitive spots on the soles of his feet that made Horatio wriggle.  
Pellew looked up. “What was the name of Captain Flinders’ boat?” “Sorry?” Hornblower was caught unprepared for such a question.

“It was in all those papers somewhere.” “The Investigator.”  
“No.” Pellew kissed his big toe. “The little one.” “Oh.” Hornblower swallowed. “The Tom Thumb.”  
“Ah yes—the Tom Thumb.” As he spoke, Pellew pushed his thumb between Hornblower’s toes and drew it firmly down the underside of his foot. “He is setting out on a new voyage,” he whispered, turning Hornblower’s leg outwards, so he could kiss the smooth hard knobble of his ankle.  
Hornblower laughed again and reached for Pellew’s hair, raking his fingers through the short tufts on top, then tugging gently, leading him up the inside of his leg. This was indeed uncharted territory, for never before had Hornblower’s slender shins or his bony knees received such attention. But shins and knees were merely steps along the way, and Edward was well en route to his true destination. Sitting on his haunches, he pushed Hornblower’s legs further apart and nosed his way between. Two months earlier, Horatio had flung himself from the bed when he tried to do the same thing; this time he flung himself towards Edward, rocking his hips to meet his lips. As he rocked and Edward rocked and the hammock rocked with them, Hornblower gasped and groaned and grew so dizzy that he felt he was rocking the whole ship. He grabbed at Edward’s ears, at his shoulders and his hair and anything that came to hand. “Oh,” he moaned; “Ohh,” he shuddered, when Edward’s tongue did something impossibly pleasant; “Ow!” he yelped when the ship rocked too much and the lovely hot sheath became a mouthful of teeth.  
Pellew pulled back and nearly lost his balance; he steadied himself with one hand on Hornblower’s knee. “Did I hurt you?” he asked. “Should I stop?” He had not forgotten those nights at the equator.  
“For heaven’s sake don’t stop!” Hornblower growled and pushed Pellew’s head back between his legs. He laughed as he did it—that was no way to treat an admiral—but he was in no state to care and soon he was in no state to think as Edward licked and sucked and soon lapped up the spill.  
“Oh my God,” Hornblower said shakily when Edward’s head lay at rest, grinning up at him from his damp thigh. Hornblower shifted modestly; he put his legs together and brushed his nightshirt down. Even that simple action took tremendous effort, for he felt completely drained.  
“Did you like that?” Pellew asked. Horatio rarely let him do so much.  
Hornblower closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Of course I did.” His whole body was still trembling in the aftermath of what Edward had done. “Thank you.” He found Pellew’s face and stroked his cheek, then his lips—lips probably tinged with his own seed, Hornblower thought, but it did not bother him as it normally might have. His sated body was thinking for him. But, before his racing heart had beat a hundred times, he realised he had done nothing to return the favour. He opened his eyes and saw Edward watching him rapturously; he had not yet found release. Hornblower smiled. “Come here,” he

said, still fondling his lover’s face. “Come here,” he insisted, tugging Edward to his feet and down on top of him. They kissed, then Horatio slipped his hand between them.  
Pellew gasped, clutching at air. The mere sight of his beloved was pure delight and he was almost there already.  
“Now what are we going to do?” Hornblower echoed his earlier words. He caught Edward’s flailing hands and guided them to his own behind. “We could do this,” he whispered. It seemed like the next step—to be completely together, he thought in a rush of affection.  
Pellew looked at him, disbelieving. Horatio was asking him to take him and he wanted to—his whole body wanted to—but he could not unless he was sure of what Horatio wanted, and he was not quite sure. “No,” he said. “No, you’re drunk and…” But Horatio looked too calm and Edward respected him too much to tell him he was not in control. “And too beautiful,” he finished.  
Hornblower’s hands began to protest but Edward quickly closed the question. He shuddered and lay still, then laughed when he caught his breath. “Do you see what I mean?”  
“I can feel what you mean,” said Hornblower.  
“Oh. I apologise.” Pellew rolled off, leaving a moist place where he had been, but Hornblower did not let him go far. He nestled into the crook of his arm and laid his hand on his chest.  
“I love you,” said Hornblower.  
“I love you,” said Pellew. “God only knows how much I love you.” They held each other until the sea rocked them to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sir.” The voice penetrated Hornblower’s dream, not quite waking him but inserting itself into his sleeping consciousness.  
“Sir… Admiral Pellew, sir.”  
Pellew stirred when he heard his name. It was Merrick’s voice, he realised, and Merrick’s knuckles, rapping on his bedroom door. Only then did he remember he was still in bed with Horatio. Too well satisfied to stay awake, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms and now, it seemed, they were trapped.  
“Just a moment, Merrick,” Pellew croaked. He shook Hornblower’s shoulder. The moment he opened his eyes, Pellew laid a finger to his lips. “They’re looking for us,” he whispered.  
Hornblower nodded very slightly in acknowledgement. Then he lay completely still as Pellew got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and opened the door just enough to show his face.  
“What is it?” he asked.  
“It’s land, sir,” said the steward, sounding not in the least excited nor at all suspicious but merely irritated at having to deliver the news an hour or so before he would usually rise. “Mr Bush is asking for you, sir—in the captain’s absence.”  
Pellew coughed. It was impossible to tell from Merrick’s dull eyes whether he suspected anything. “Very well. Tell Mr Bush I will be up presently.”  
“Aye sir.” Merrick shuffled out of the great cabin.  
Pellew turned to Hornblower, who was already up and dressing as quickly and quietly as possible. “I’ll go up,” he said, hastily tucking his crumpled shirt into his trousers.  
“Very well,” said Pellew. Since Hornblower was almost dressed, he saw no point in hurrying himself.  
Hornblower slipped on one still-damp shoe. “What do I say?” he said, speaking mostly to himself. His brow was creased and full of self-reproach. He had known that landfall was expected in the morning, yet he had let himself fall asleep in Edward’s bed and slept almost till dawn.  
“Say nothing,” Pellew said shortly. “It’s your prerogative. Besides which, there’s much to be done.”  
“Yes.” Hornblower sighed. He was still not quite awake but he was dressed, aside from his coat and hat which, he remembered, he had left in the main cabin. Merrick must have seen them but there was no point in worrying

about that now; there was nothing to do but join Bush on deck. Without another word, Hornblower pulled on his jacket, fetched his hat and went above.  
Hornblower found Bush, White, and three midshipmen gathered at the prow, peering east at the strange new coast they had reached, a black shadow against an indigo sky.  
“Captain—” Bush started. Evidently he was surprised to see Hornblower. “Pardon me, Mr Bush, I was indisposed,” Hornblower said bluntly.  
Bush made a slightly embarrassed sympathetic face before stammering, “I hope you’re feeling better, sir.”  
Hornblower nodded slightly, knowing that would be enough to dispose of the topic. Bush had seen his captain sea-sick, sick with nerves and sick from bad foreign food; ‘indisposed’ might mean anything. He was almost proud of his bluff, given how his heart had pounded a few minutes earlier.  
“We sighted land ten minutes ago,” said Bush. “It’s on the slate, sir.” Hornblower nodded again. “What’s our position?”  
“Dead on forty south and just short of one-four-five east, as close as we can reckon, sir.”  
Hornblower contemplated the murky silhouette of King’s Island. “And perhaps three miles offshore.” He smiled slightly. “Well, we know the island’s where it should be.”  
“Sir?”  
“I hope that means we can trust our French chart.” Hornblower stood erect with his hands behind his back, the picture of decorum and authority. “Take us around to the north and into the strait.”  
“Aye sir.”  
“But keep a mile between us and the shore—the coast shoals rapidly and we don’t have accurate soundings.”  
“Aye sir.”  
Bush went aft and Hornblower turned to the midshipmen who were still watching from the gunwale.  
“Mr Chivers, report to Lieutenant Bush for our new heading and signal the other ships.”  
“Aye aye sir.”  
The sun had just risen when Pellew arrived on deck. He was fully dressed, Hornblower noted; with his red satin sash and his starched white neckcloth tied in a crisp bow, he was done up like a lavish gift. Hornblower had never been able to decide whether he liked that ridiculous bow, but Edward was certainly better attired than he, since he had been obliged to put on the previous day’s crumpled shirt and wet stockings. Hornblower almost smirked when he thought of his stockings. It was strange to think that the elegantly dressed admiral who had just appeared on his quarterdeck was the same man who had peeled off his stockings and tickled his toes the night before—and that was only the beginning.

Pellew stopped beside him and looked at the island. “I was about to say here’s our first glimpse of New Holland—but it isn’t, is it.”  
“No.” Hornblower was surprised to feel his heart race at Edward’s nearness. The night’s intimacy and the morning’s near escape seemed to have deepened his attraction. He was handsome in his starched white bow, Hornblower though, then forced himself to look away. He watched the unfamiliar shore passing under their lee. “But it seems the French chart is correct, sir,” he said, disguising his soft feelings with staid speech.  
“Indeed.”  
They both watched quietly as Hyacinth passed King’s Island. But the morning’s drama had made both men anxious not to appear too absorbed in one another so, a few minutes later, Pellew announced that he was going below.  
Hornblower nodded. “I expect we will turn west again within the hour.” “That’s the course we planned?”  
“Yes sir.”  
“Very good.” For a moment Pellew’s eyes lingered on his flag captain.  
Then he said “Carry on” and went below.  
Despite his sense of achievement in finally sighting terra australis—even an offshore island—Hornblower remained mindful that the journey was far from over. In fact they had just begun the most difficult and dangerous leg of the voyage. The strait which divided Van Diemen’s Land from New Holland was of variable depth and peppered with islands at both the east and west entrances.  
One ship, at least, had been wrecked on King’s Island, while the many smaller islets—some of them mere pin-pricks on the map—were more hazardous still, for even slight inaccuracies in the charts or in the navigator’s reckoning might see Hyacinth run aground before anyone knew what had happened. Therefore Hornblower posted a man aloft throughout daylight hours to look for hazards and confirm the position of known landforms. Hornblower was glad to find the charts correct in every observable respect, though he half wished his lookout would spot some unknown isle or rocky outcrop so that he could name it for Pellew. It would be a romantic gesture, Hornblower thought as he paced his quarterdeck, but quite explicable. Captain Black had named King’s Island for Sydney’s governor and Flinders had named Bass’ Strait for his surgeon friend; it would not be unusual if Captain Hornblower named some new landform for the admiral who had given him his command. But the lookout found nothing and before long Hyacinth was in the clear strait that ran halfway between the fortieth and thirty-ninth parallels.  
Having found the east-west channel did not mean easy sailing, however. The shallow strait made the sea mount up in dauntingly steep swells, while the south-westerlies that blew continually at that time of year threatened to drive ships onto the lee shore. The wind was bitterly cold, too, and Hornblower knew he was working his crew hard to ensure that Hyacinth did not stray too far north

with the wind or the unpredictable currents; no doubt the sloops’ crews were working even harder.  
Evening settled early and grey in the unfamiliar southern waters.  
Hornblower became more nervous when the fading light compelled him to rely on map and compass. Still, if his calculations were correct—and they were never wrong—it would be dawn before they would have to navigate the perilous eastern exit. Happily the Pacific side of the strait—the Kent group and the Furneaux Islands—was more familiar to English map-makers than the western entrance they had passed that morning.  
In fact, one of Governor King’s last letters to the Admiralty notified his intent to found a settlement at Port Dalrymple on the northern coast of Van Diemen’s Land, in order to pre-empt any French interest in the island. Standing on the darkened quarterdeck, Hornblower realised that Port Dalrymple was at that moment almost directly south of Hyacinth’s position. It was strange to think of British settlers living somewhere out there in the endless unfamiliar dark, perhaps eating their supper at that very moment—or perhaps there was no-one there at all. After four months at sea, Hornblower and Pellew and all the other men living in the microcosm of the ship’s wooden walls had no way of knowing how the world might have changed around them. It was even possible that there were French settlers in Van Diemen’s Land, but Hornblower would not know until his ship reached Port Jackson.  
Hornblower remained on deck throughout the night, watching by the grey light of an overcast moon as Hyacinth sailed east. The wind tended more southerly in the middle of the strait and the ship bucked like an unbroken horse as she cut across it, sending sheets of salt water over the side and sometimes over Hornblower. He could not feel his feet or his nose, his eyes stung and even his teeth ached from the cold. As the hours wore on, the cold and the dark coaxed him into a strange state of anxious drowsiness that was nothing like sleep. He was awake but aware of little besides the need to retain his balance as the deck rose and fell beneath him, and all the while he watched the horizon, watching for dangers which did not appear, until his eyes began to deceive him, making rocks out of shadows and cliffs out of mist. Once, half an hour into the middle watch, Hornblower saw ghostly white Dover rise in Hyacinth’s path; only another wave of spray, cold on his face and salty on his lips, made those cliffs disappear.  
Shivering, he pulled his compass from his pocket. “True to our course, then?”  
Startled, Hornblower looked and saw Pellew standing at his shoulder. “Yes,” he sighed. “Still.” It must have been the twelfth time he had checked. He found Pellew’s eyes in the dark. “It’s after midnight.”  
“So it is.”  
Hornblower shuffled closer to Pellew and for a long time they stood together in silent companionship. They did not need to say what they both knew: that this was the kind of night on which neither of them would find sleep.

“There’s nothing like a heaving deck to improve the calves,” said Pellew, almost an hour later.  
Hornblower, who had drifted again into that strange shadow world, was suddenly awake once more. He looked at Edward. He could not see beneath the admiral’s cloak, but he knew how he would be standing: knees slightly bent and legs apart, shifting his weight from one to the other with the ship’s rhythm, never losing his balance—not once in the time Hornblower had known him. “Yours, perhaps,” he said, smiling—or trying to smile, but his face was too cold to have much control over what expression it was wearing. Even his lips were sluggish and reluctant to form words.  
Hornblower could just catch the familiar sound of Edward’s laughter over the wind in his ears. “Yes…” Pellew grumbled, as a stealthy hand found Hornblower’s bottom in the stiff fabric of his coat and squeezed it, just for a moment.  
Hornblower snatched a surprised breath. “That’s not my leg,” he whispered.  
“Pardon?” It was cold and dark and hard to hear or see, but only in such circumstances would Pellew behave so scandalously. Now he folded his hands behind his back.  
“I said that’s not my leg,” Hornblower whispered. “I’m quite aware of that.”  
Hornblower glanced at Pellew and saw his smiling eyes shining in pale light. Then he shivered and crossed his arms more tightly across his chest. “We have to be careful,” he said, but even as he spoke he leaned a little further under Edward’s lee.  
“Mm…” Pellew’s natural impulse was to put his arm about Hornblower’s shoulders but, in deference to what he had just said, he settled for standing closer still. “These are dangerous waters,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he peered into the murky night.  
“I know.” Hornblower followed his gaze to the false horizon, where the grey sea ran into the black beyond, but he was not thinking of the ocean. “I meant—”  
“Dangerous waters… Men have been led astray.” Pellew caught Hornblower’s eye again. “Last night, for example.”  
Edward had understood him perfectly well, Hornblower realised: they had been reckless and that morning they had almost been found out; they would have to be more careful in the future. Yet Hornblower found himself smiling when he should have been furious with himself. The previous night had been too enjoyable to regret. “And I thank you,” he said, bashfully; had the night air not been so cold, he would have blushed. “I’ve never felt so… so...” He could not finish his sentence and laughed at himself instead.  
“The pleasure was mine, Horatio.”

Hornblower smiled, but he was too shy to meet Pellew’s eyes while they spoke of such things—things he had gladly done the night before. Sometimes he was too shy even for that, like that hot humid night when he had flung himself onto the floor, unwilling to receive what Edward was so eager to give; unwilling to let himself believe that he wanted it. His sensibility was out of tune with his sensuality. Sometimes his mind rebelled even as his body revelled in the act. But, the night before, everything had seemed so easy, so natural and so right that he had wanted to do more, and he had enjoyed that uninhibited happiness as much as the feel of Edward’s mouth upon him. He had ended the evening fulfilled and somehow unfettered in a way he seldom was; that was why he had struggled all day to distance the part of himself that was in love with Edward from the part that was captain of Hyacinth; that was why he did not want to say what he had to say next. “Thank you,” he murmured instead, just loud enough to be heard.  
“It was a delight to see you so happy,” Pellew replied; he was well aware of the struggle Hornblower felt within himself, though he could not understand it: he could not understand why a beautiful young man would be so giving of himself and ask so little in return. “Not to mention naked.”  
Now Hornblower did blush, despite the cold. “Thank you,” he said again. Then he took Pellew’s hand. “But… but I think we had better not do anything else, until we get to Port Jackson.” He took a deep breath and felt the cool air chill his lungs before he let it out. He was almost surprised by his own words; while he knew he had to say something, he had not known exactly what he would say until the words were out.  
“Why?” Pellew frowned. “I’ve not upset you, have I?”  
“No.” Hornblower smiled placidly. “I thoroughly enjoyed myself—but I think you knew that.”  
“You’re not punishing yourself, are you Horatio?” Pellew squeezed his hand, which was smaller and colder than his own.  
Hornblower merely blinked.  
“Not punishing yourself… for enjoying yourself?”  
“No.” Hornblower shook his head. He did not think he was punishing himself, though perhaps he was denying himself; it would have been in character. “Only… we must be more careful.” He shook his head; he was tired of speaking in tongues. “I’m sure Merrick has seen enough to suspect something, if he stopped to think about it. Or Bush.”  
“I think we are safe,” Pellew replied. “But I will do what you think best.” Hornblower had every right to be rattled: the morning might have been a disaster, however unlikely that seemed.  
Hornblower looked deeply into Pellew’s eyes, glossy in the gloom. “You know that isn’t what I want.”  
Pellew nodded again.

“And when we reach the colony…” Hornblower sighed. “Maybe things will be easier there.” He searched Edward’s eyes for any offence and found them smiling.  
“Agreed,” he said. “I suppose now I’ll have no choice but to work—” “—Edward, I didn’t mean not to see each other.” Hornblower laid his  
other hand over Pellew’s as well. “I only meant…” He fumbled for the words, perhaps because he did not want to be bound by them, either. “I only meant we should not spend our evenings together—alone together. But we can still play Whist.”  
“Certainly.” Pellew smiled. “As soon as we’re through the strait.” He released Hornblower’s hand and folded his arms once more behind his back. “And I shall look forward to our arrival at Port Jackson all the more.”  
A minute later, the ship dipped sharply and the two men found themselves thrown together, snatching at the railing and at each other.  
“I assure you that was not deliberate,” Pellew said when they had regained their balance, though in truth neither of them had tried very hard to avoid colliding.  
“I know,” said Hornblower, but his heart beat a little harder than it had a moment ago.

A few long cold hours followed before the morning watch was called and the sky began to lighten in the east. Hornblower and Pellew remained on deck. They found no rest—merely keeping their balance took a good deal of energy— but at least they had the comfort of knowing the ship was safe. The ghostly cliffs and phantom rocks that had haunted Hornblower through the night were no more than mists and shadows which the coming dawn would soon clear away.  
“Thunder?” said Hornblower, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him as well.  
Pellew glanced skywards. “But no lightning, that I can see.” They heard another distant rumble.  
“Perhaps,” said Pellew, “but a long way off. We’ll run ahead of the weather.”  
Hornblower was glad of the reassurance: the sea was stormy enough without thunder and lightning as well. Even with her topsails reefed, Hyacinth was cruising as swiftly as her captain cared. Salt spray crashed over the deck and the wind railed in the rigging. Hornblower excused the men from washing down the decks—the sea had done the job for them—and sent a team to the bilge pump instead; the rest he allowed to shelter as they pleased.  
Soon the sun mounted the horizon. “Look out, report,” Hornblower called. “Nothing yet, sir.”  
Hornblower went to the log-board. If his calculations were correct and  
Hyacinth had held her latitude overnight, they would sight the Kent group within

the watch. He planned to bisect the twenty miles of sea room between those islands and the smaller Furneaux group to the north-east. But with incomplete charts and an overcast sky, he could only guess his true position. It was possible that leeway and the fierce gusting wind had laid Hyacinth on a collision course. He turned to Pellew. “I’d like to wait for the light before we weather the Furneaux Islands.”  
Pellew nodded.  
“Back the foresails,” Hornblower told the officer of the watch. That would slow the ship down; normally he would shorten sail but the sea was too rough to send the men aloft if it could be avoided. “And alter course, east-by-south.” That would compensate for leeway. “Mr Clyde, signal the sloops accordingly.”  
“Aye sir,” said Clyde; a few minutes later, “Pig acknowledges, sir.”  
Captain and admiral looked aft where they could just see Pygmalion coming to her new course. Pellew was pleased to see that his son had maintained his position so well overnight; that his earlier waywardness had been the result of inattention rather than incompetence. “The boy may prove himself yet,” he said to Hornblower.  
Hornblower raised his eyebrows slightly; he was about to ask if he considered his son unproved when the lookout called down, “No sign of Hotspur, sir.”  
Hornblower looked aft again, more urgently this time. He raised his glass to check but he could not see the sloop. The other officers looked too.  
“Perhaps she’s behind the Pig, sir,” Martin suggested.  
“I hope so,” Hornblower said quietly, then turned to Clyde. “Signal  
Pygmalion, ask Hotspur’s position.” “Aye aye sir.”  
Hornblower paced anxiously as he waited for a reply. The sun had only just risen and the sky in the west was still a deep blue; with the fine mist thrown up by the restless sea, the result was very poor visibility. Hotspur was the slowest of the three ships; she was probably too far behind to see the flagship signal or for the flagship to see her. Pygmalion would have a better view, Hornblower told himself, but the next signal shattered his hypothesis.  
“They can’t see her, sir!” said Clyde. “Not since last night.” “Good God,” said Pellew.  
Hornblower swallowed awkwardly. Anything could have happened during the long winter night: Hotspur might have lost her way in the dark, she might have got into trouble and fallen behind, she might have run aground—or perhaps all three. There were dozens of known islands in the narrow straight and, with a strong wind pushing north-east, the lee shore was never far away. It hardly bore thinking about, but Hornblower had to think because he had to act. “Heave-to, sir?” he asked Pellew. They would either have to hold their position and hope for Hotspur to appear or press on to Port Jackson and pray that Walton joined them there, but Pellew was not in such a hurry that he would do that.

“What’s the wind?” he asked.  
“Three points abaft the beam, sir,” said Martin. “That’s south-west, thirty to forty knots.”  
Pellew did not reply immediately.  
“Shall we heave-to, sir?” Hornblower asked again. He was anxious to do something, for every moment they hesitated drove them further away from Hotspur.  
“Beat to windward,” said Pellew. He spoke decisively now that he had made up his mind. “I want to look for her.”  
“Aye sir,” said Hornblower. The order took him by surprise: Pellew was asking him to sail almost four points into the wind and that could only be done—if it could be done at all—by bracing the yards around as far as they would go and tacking continually. The wind would only have to veer a point or two and Hyacinth would be in irons. But, even as he contemplated the risk, Hornblower was making calculations. “Prepare to tack the ship,” he told his waiting officers. “New course, west-nor’-west.” They would have to sail west-nor’-west then  
south-south-east to achieve a westerly course. “Mr Clyde, signal Pygmalion. We’re looking for Hotspur.”  
“Aye sir.”  
Already the hands were at their stations, manning braces and bowlines. When the word was given the men hauled and the helm went over, then the yards were braced around and gradually Hyacinth came to her new course. The sails, still shivering occasionally, showed that the frigate was sailing as close to the wind as she possibly could.  
“Full and bye,” Hornblower told the quartermaster. Pygmalion had already tacked and was more than a cable’s length in front. Hornblower had no desire to be taken aback when he was already behind.  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
“With any luck, Captain Walton will catch us up before we’ve come a mile,” Pellew said as the ship crept west.  
“Yes,” Hornblower said queasily. Hyacinth was no longer rolling on the  
swell; she was shuddering and chopping her way through it with all the elegance of a timber-feller.  
“Bad news sir,” said Bush, grim faced, when he arrived on the quarterdeck.  
Hornblower sighed. “God knows how many rocks might have gone under her lee.”  
“I dread to think, sir.” Bush looked west; almost every man on deck was looking west, looking for any sign of the missing sloop. “But Captain Walton seems a good officer, sir.”  
“Yes,” Hornblower sighed again.  
The two ships were still edging west, tacking continually, when the forenoon watch was called. It was almost impossible to tell how far they had come or how much leeway they had made; Hornblower was counting on

Hotspur—if she were to be found at all—having drifted north as well. But there was no sign of her and the anxiety, combined with the awkward gait of a ship battling a contrary wind, had tied an ugly knot in Hornblower’s stomach. While the rocking, rolling rhythm had been at least reasonably regular, the shuddering, staggering motion of a ship working to windward was making him sea-sick. He had no interest in the breakfast Merrick brought him, on Pellew’s orders; he was only interested in finding Hotspur and in not vomiting in front of the ship’s company. But he did accept a cup of black coffee, in the hope that it would settle his stomach.  
At last the signal came: Pygmalion had found the sloop. Hornblower and his officers hurried to the larboard bow, but Hyacinth was some way behind and they could see nothing yet.  
Another signal from Pygmalion informed them that Hotspur was afloat but damaged. Pellew let out a tense breath; the only outward sign of his concern.  
Slowly Hyacinth closed the distance and Hotspur appeared, minus her mizzen rig: the topmast had gone and, with it, the yards and spanker. The mainmast was in disarray as well—probably the mizzen stays had dragged down the topyard—but there was no other obvious damage and she did not appear to be taking on water. In fact, the sloop was still valiantly making her way west under foresails alone.  
“Lay us alongside her,” Hornblower told Prowse.  
“You won’t want to go in too close, sir,” said Prowse, “not in this wind: we don’t want to strike her.”  
“Not too close, then—and don’t strike her,” Hornblower snapped. His insides felt only marginally better now they had found Hotspur; carrying on as  
though his head was not spinning and his stomach not turning was making him irritable.  
“We might offer our assistance,” Pellew prompted Hornblower, who was listing a little.  
“Aye sir,” said Hornblower, reminding himself that sea-sickness was no excuse for laxity in his responsibilities as captain. He turned to Orrock, the most senior of the midshipmen. “Mr Orrock, organise a party to go aboard in the longboat—carpenters, sail-makers—and find some timber as well.”  
“Aye sir.” Orrock set to work immediately. “I’d like to go over,” Hornblower told Pellew.  
“Very well. You might find out what happened, while you’re at it.” “Yes.” Hornblower squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He still felt  
dizzy, and the prospect of quizzing poor Captain Walton was not a happy one. “Are you well enough to go?” Pellew asked quietly.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower, squaring his shoulders.  
When his party arrived aboard Hotspur, Hornblower found Walton grim- faced and almost frantic. “Sir!” he said, hurrying to meet Hornblower before he

had climbed out of the longboat. But, beyond that, Walton did not seem to know what to say. He stood, chest heaving, evidently expecting some reproach.  
Instead, Hornblower smiled. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Captain.” “It’s certainly a relief to see you, sir.” Walton smiled too, but even then an  
unusual amount of white showed around the young man’s eyes.  
Hornblower politely averted his gaze; he supposed Walton was at pains to conceal his private panic from his men and from a fellow captain. Instead Hornblower looked around the dismasted ship and the hands—Hotspur’s and Hyacinth’s—already at work repairing her. Besides the damage aloft there was some astern where the mizzen top had fallen. Otherwise the ship was sound, but Hornblower did not expect Walton would take much comfort in that: had he been in the same position—whether or not he was at fault—Hornblower would have been appalled. He was reluctant to ask what had happened, out of consideration for the young man’s feelings. But he did not need to ask, for Walton began to pour out the story.  
“The mizzen mast,” he said, “I was for’ard, just before dawn, when there was a strong gust and a terrible crack… We were carrying too much sail, I know that now, but I had reefed and reefed again, and I didn’t want to lose the flagship… Well, I couldn’t see a thing in the dark, but I ran aft and the mizzen top was down, crashed right through the taffrail, with shrouds and rigging everywhere, and Kelson laying under it, moaning… He was at the helm when the spanker boom came down, snapped through, and I thought he’d been crushed to death. The surgeon says he was lucky: just a broken leg and a pair of ribs, sir, but—”  
“It’s all right, captain,” said Hornblower; he could see that Walton was becoming distressed and running out of breath as well. Hornblower tried to remember how Pellew used to comfort him when the world went awry. “It’s all right,” he said again, calmly. “Were there any other casualties?”  
“No, God bless.” Walton drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes before continuing, “I tried to keep on, sir—tried to keep up—but she’s a different ship without a mizzen mast, and this wind was intent on driving us north.”  
Hornblower nodded. Leeway was the greatest danger the sloop had faced and Walton had done well, in the circumstances, to keep so close to his course; had he panicked or let the ship drift while he tried to repair the damage, Hotspur might have been lost.  
“You’ve done very well,” he told Walton, and meant it. “If you were much further north, we might never have found you.”  
“And God knows what we would have found!” Walton blurted. “Pardon  
me, Captain.”  
Hornblower smiled; he was pleased to see a touch of Walton’s usual spirit returning.  
“And thank you, captain,” Walton added. “I hardly hoped the admiral would come after us. It must have been a trial beating into that wind.”

“I wouldn’t like to attempt it with my mizzen gone.”  
“No.” Walton looked aft, where the men were aloft re-rigging the main mast and the carpenter was working side by side with his counterpart from Hyacinth.  
“There’s timber in the longboat, if you need it,” said Hornblower, “but I fear there’s nothing we can do about that mast.” Even if a spar could be found to replace the damaged mizzen, there was no way of hoisting it into place with the sea so rough. “The admiral hopes you can get to Port Jackson jury-rigged.”  
“I hope so. My carpenter promises a new gaff and boom within the hour; that’s a start, isn’t it?”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“And there’s a spare yard we can use for a topmast, once we’re in calmer waters,” said Walton. Now he was calmer, he seemed more confident. He was speaking to Hornblower more as the friend he had sat with at Pellew’s birth-day dinner than as a superior officer come to inspect his crippled ship. Walton laughed. “Just picture it: a stout little ensemble, complete with tops’l and spanker.”

watch.

“Thirty-nine and a half, sir,” Sommers told White, the officer of the

“Thirty-nine and a half south, captain,” White told Hornblower, tucking

his own sextant under his arm.  
Hornblower nodded; that was where they should be, and if the Kent Group was where it should be, they ought to see land shortly. Two ships’ carpenters had done an admirable job on Hotspur’s makeshift mizzen mast and the little fleet was sailing in company once more.  
“Carrying too much sail,” said Pellew.  
“Sir?” Hornblower was puzzled. Hyacinth was sailing beautifully now she had the wind on her quarter; he could not see what the admiral had found to complain about.  
“No, I mean Hotspur.”  
“Oh.” Pellew was right, Hornblower thought—Walton had said so himself—but he was inclined to absolve Walton for what had happened. “Only enough to keep pace with us, sir, and with the wind gusting—”  
“I know,” Pellew quietened him; the adamant curve of Hornblower’s upper lip was enough to make him lose his train of thought. He cleared his throat. “It was an accident that might have been foreseen but, as you suggest, probably not avoided. Had Captain Walton furled his sails we might have lost him further back, with still less chance of finding him. And, in the circumstances, it might as easily have been us.”  
Hornblower nodded soberly.  
“I fear the fault is as much mine as it is anyone’s,” said Pellew. Hornblower frowned. “Hardly, sir—”

“I ought not to have hastened through the strait when—” “—But as you said, sir, it was an unavoidable accident—”  
“—In which case I am as much entitled as Captain Walton to blame myself.” Pellew compelled Hornblower’s agreement with a firm look.  
“As you wish, sir.”  
“Still…” Pellew clasped his hands behind his back and squinted at the grey sea. “We’ve recovered our ground, have we not?”  
“Yes sir.” Hornblower half laughed, “Not that we lost much.” “True.” Even with one ship jury-rigged, the eastward passage was far  
swifter than tacking west into a south-westerly gale.  
Hornblower matched Pellew’s posture, with his hands behind his back.  
Several minutes passed before he spoke. “Sir, the thunder I heard before dawn—” “Yes?”  
“It was cannon: Hotspur, sir, trying to draw our attention.”  
“And we thought it was a storm.” Pellew shook his head slowly. “Captain Walton was unfortunate, but he is not unintelligent.”  
“No sir. And next time—”  
“Let us hope there will not be a next time.”  
“Of course,” said Hornblower. They would reach the Pacific in a matter of hours; Port Jackson in perhaps a week, if the weather was favourable.  
Hornblower yawned. “Pardon me, sir.”  
Pellew looked at him softly, “You needn’t pretend you weren’t up all night. I was there, you know.”  
“And the night before.” Hornblower smiled faintly. “Well, half the night.” “Yes…” Pellew might have made some bawdy remark, but he was mindful  
of what Hornblower had told him during the night, while they kept watch together. He looked Hornblower up and down; lack of sleep, a rough sea and the morning’s worries had left him pale and drawn. “You might get some sleep once we turn the corner.”  
“I don’t need—”  
“—Once we’re beating up coast with a fair wind, I won’t need you on deck, either.”  
“Very well,” Hornblower relented. “Once we’re through.”  
The two men were quiet again, watching for the islands that marked the end of the strait.  
“I might have some breakfast,” Hornblower added. Now that his stomach had settled, he realised he was hungry.  
“Notwithstanding that it’s past dinner time.” “I hardly noticed.”  
Before long, White was calling, “Land sir, to starboard.”  
Hornblower looked. They ought to be the Kent Islands, but it made little difference. Negotiating the last few miles of Bass’ Strait would be a matter of

seeing land and steering around it. “Keep us on the northern side,” he told Prowse.  
“Aye sir.” Prowse sounded almost bored. After the effort of beating to windward, the task before him was simple.  
Hyacinth turned two points and the sloops followed. A little while later,  
the lookout called out again and White repeated, “Rocks, sir.” “Where?”  
“Just ahead of those islands, sir. We’ll pass them all right on this tack.” “Thank you,” said Hornblower. They were the Kent Islands, then; he  
remembered the outlying rocks from the chart. But the rocks were soon behind them and they were through. There was nothing ahead but empty sea, all the way to New Zealand. “Nor’-east by east, Mr Prowse.”  
“Nor’-east by east it is, sir.”  
“Mr White, I’ll be below.” Hornblower glanced at Pellew then went to his cabin to sleep.

Pellew and his fleet finally had their first glimpse of New Holland at Cape Howe. From then on, the three ships followed the coast, counting off the other capes, points and headlands named on the Admiralty map. This was the coastline discovered by Cook in 1770; they were in comparatively well-known waters now and just a few days’ sail from Port Jackson.  
“Jervis’ Bay, sir?” Bush asked one evening, as he prepared to log the landfall.  
“Too far south,” said Hornblower. By his reckoning, Jervis’ Bay was sixty miles or so further north. “Bateman Bay, I believe.”  
“My mistake, sir,” Bush said pleasantly. “Looks like a good harbour,” he remarked as Hyacinth sailed past the mouth.  
“And nothing there but trees, it would seem.” Hornblower wondered whether those trees were perhaps the melaleucas which Banks had spoken of; if they were, he did not share the naturalist’s enthusiasm. But he was amazed by the vast emptiness of the continent. It was strange to think that a ship could sail for days, at a good rate of knots, and not see so much as a fishing boat or a seaside hamlet; it was stranger still to think that, in a few days’ time, they would drop anchor in a British port. Of course the land was not empty, Hornblower knew, but the only sign of the native inhabitants was the occasional plume of smoke rising from the bush. They lived without the cities, industry and agriculture that had changed the face of Europe; they lived, it seemed, in the shadow of an endless forest. The one time Hornblower thought he saw human figures, a closer look proved them to be kangaroos, browsing on the scrubby shore; they were bigger than Hornblower had expected from the pictures in books. There was abundant bird life as well, and one morning they spotted a pod of whales shadowing the fleet, but there was no sign that white men had ever visited the vast southern land.

The next day the fleet passed Cape St George. Beyond were bays and sandy beaches, cliffs and wooded tablelands, sometimes overshadowing the narrow strip of coast; sometimes receding into the hazy distance. One morning in early July, four months after leaving Portsmouth, Hornblower rose to see towering sandstone cliffs, painted red and yellow by the newly-risen sun and worn into fantastic shapes by millennia of crashing waves. Above it all, the distant green forest was dwarfed by the rock face and shrouded in mist that the sun had not yet cleared. The three men-o’-war seemed small and insignificant as they sailed past the escarpment; they cast no shadows on the rusty cliffs.  
“Morning, sir,” Martin greeted him.  
“Mr Martin,” Hornblower nodded, then returned his attention to the unfamiliar shore. They were not far from Port Jackson—soon he would consult the charts and determine just how far—but for the time being he was content to watch like a tourist while they sailed beneath the strange weathered cliffs.  
“A bit like Dover, don’t you think, sir?” Bush said when he appeared on

deck.

Hornblower smiled. “Not quite—not white, to be sure.” “No sir.” Bush smiled too.  
As the sun climbed higher, the cliffs fractured and fell away into two bays,

the second marked on its southern side by vast yellow sand dunes.  
“If I’m not mistaken, sir…” Bush began, excitement colouring his chaffy

voice.

“Botany Bay,” said Hornblower. He was excited, too: for the first time in a

week spent off the coast of New South Wales, he felt he had arrived.  
Some of the men had overheard and hurried to larboard to see the bay whose name was already embedded in the consciousness of Britain’s poorer classes. Hornblower supposed many of the hands might have friends, relatives and old acquaintances who had been sentenced to transportation. Yet the landscape they were looking at told nothing of those people. All they could see was low cliffs and sandy beaches, dunes and a wide brownish bay. Looking at that unpromising landscape, Hornblower was not entirely surprised that Lieutenant Arthur Phillip had decided to settle at Port Jackson instead when he arrived with the first fleet of convict settlers.  
Pellew and most of the officers were on deck as well by the time the fleet had crossed the mouth of Botany Bay. Now they were passing crescent-shaped beaches, where the surf ran over yellow sand, up almost to the forest beyond. In between were headlands hewn from the same sandstone they had seen that morning, carved into fragile formations by the force of a restless ocean. This landscape appealed more, Hornblower thought; fanciful rock faces alternated with lively woodland and pretty beaches. But it was still a wild, empty place and he could hardly believe they were just a few miles from their destination.

“If this were England,” said Pellew, “there would be a little village in each of these coves.” He held his head high, savouring the crisp air of a sunny winter’s day and squinting at the bright sand, where the blue-green ocean turned to foam.  
“It’s so empty,” said Hornblower.  
Pellew nodded. “But one might think Cornwall empty, seen from the sea.  
Land’s End, Penzance—”  
“Perhaps not Penzance,” said Hornblower.  
“Not the town, no… But see that miserable little ditch?” Pellew pointed to the small inlet they were passing, close-hemmed by cliffs and full of shadows, now the sun had moved behind. “That might be a new Clovelly.”  
Hornblower laughed quietly.  
“Well, if you took away the trees, and threw up a few fishermen’s cottages.”  
“You should talk to Mr Bush. You can argue amongst yourselves whether this is New Cornwall or New Kent.”  
“Ah, but I fear the question has been decided for us. Apparently, Hornblower, this is New South Wales.”  
“Or New Holland.”  
“Or neither.” Pellew chuckled. “We’re here to ensure it doesn’t become New Brittany, aren’t we.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. “Though I believe the coast looks more like southern France than southern Wales.”  
“It looks nothing like France!” Pellew declared and laughed again. The next beach they passed looked nothing like any part of Europe.  
Hornblower had never seen so much sand—clean yellow sand, not the coarse black stuff of English beaches—stretching in an enormous arc between two steep headlands, with the sparkling azure sea ebbing and flowing endlessly between.  
“This is the place,” said Pellew. “Hmm?”  
“Monsieur Péron suggested that one might land troops here and march on Port Jackson.”  
“I remember,” said Hornblower. He could probably recite Péron’s plan from memory but he had not recognised the beach.  
“No sign of the Frogs today,” said Pellew. “No—no sign of anybody.”  
“Mm… But I expect we will have been seen. I wonder, captain, if we are expected?”  
“We might have outrun the Admiralty’s letter,” said Hornblower. Even if Lord Melville had written the day he informed Pellew of his new command, it was entirely possible that the letter was still aboard a merchant ship, somewhere between England and the colony.  
“Well, keep those standards flying,” said Pellew, “though it would be fun to run up the tricolore—give the governor a thrill!”

“Sir!” Hornblower gasped, but he had to laugh. “I think that’s just what he’s expecting.” Governor King’s despatches gave the impression that he genuinely feared a French attack.  
“Then let’s not frighten the poor man,” said Pellew.

The entrance to Port Jackson lay between two headlands, a little over a mile apart. Sydney Cove itself was another six or seven miles up the winding harbour. Most visiting ships depended on local pilots and Captain Baudin, Pellew knew, had taken several days between sighting the heads and dropping anchor. But Baudin’s ship had been hindered by illness and contrary winds; Pellew had no intention of taking so long. He hoped to reach Sydney Cove that evening, though that depended on what response they received from the colony: he did not wish to take the governor by surprise.  
“Heave to,” he said, when the flagship sighted Middle Head, west at two miles distance; according to his information, there was a lookout station there.  
“Where’s the battery?” Hornblower asked, when a few minutes had passed with no indication that the three ships had been seen.  
“It ought to be on that bluff, protecting the entrance to the harbour— though, in my opinion, there ought to be batteries on the headlands.” Pellew meant North Head and South Head, but the map of Port Jackson showed only a single battery on Middle Head.  
“That is our task, sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Mm. But for now we’re looking for some sort of lookout.” Pellew raised his glass. Hornblower looked too, but neither man could see ramparts or any structure at all.  
“Nothing, sir,” Hornblower confirmed, collapsing his telescope. “Damn it… where’s that map?” Pellew caught the eye of an idle  
midshipman and fumbled for his name. “Mr Blanche, go to my cabin and find the chart of Port Jackson.”  
“Aye sir.” The young man hastened below and soon returned with the

chart.

“There, sir,” Hornblower said, pointing. “The battery is on George’s

Head, here, protecting the southern part of the harbour.” He looked from the map to the landscape before him. “We won’t be able to see it until we round that headland.”  
“But have they seen us?” Pellew mused. Then he assumed his customary attitude, with his hands clasped comfortably behind his back. “Very well, take us in.”  
“Aye sir.”  
The three ships turned west and proceeded, slowly and carefully, between the heads and into Port Jackson.  
“There’s a reef, bearing half a mile west of the headland,” Hornblower told his sailing master.

sir.”

“The ‘Sow and Pigs’, sir,” Prowse grumbled. “I’m familiar with the charts,

Hornblower refrained from rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Mr Prowse.” Before Hyacinth had reached the reef, a boy called down from the foretop:

“Long boat coming to meet us, sir!”  
Hornblower drew his telescope and looked for himself. A long boat, with the British ensign hoisted in the stern, was rounding George’s Head and making its way towards the frigate. “It would appear we have been seen, sir.”  
“Some time ago, I fancy,” said Pellew. The fleet must have been sighted off the south coast for the boat to have come so soon. “Heave to on the leeward side of that reef.”  
The two vessels came into hailing distance in open water halfway between South Head and George’s Head. “Ahoy there,” an exuberant voice called from the boat. The oarsmen could be seen waving their hats and rocking the boat as they strove for a better look at the largest naval vessel ever to enter the harbour.  
“Ahoy!” Hyacinth’s man called back.  
“I take it we’ve not been mistaken for Frogs,” Pellew quipped, but in truth he was touched by the reception: the boat crew seemed as excited to see Hyacinth as Hyacinth’s men were to have reached their destination.  
“They’re offering to pilot us into Sydney Cove,” Martin reported, grinning as he repeated the words of the longboat’s officer.  
“Please accept, with our thanks,” said Pellew.  
“Have the crew come aboard, and ready a tow-line for the boat,” said Hornblower.  
Soon the officer—a man of about twenty, identified as a midshipman by the white patches on his collar—was climbing through the entry port. He hastened to salute when he saw Hornblower’s epaulette.  
“Mr Selwyn, sir, acting harbour master,” he said. He seemed nervous or perhaps merely excited, but he shook Hornblower’s hand firmly. “Welcome to New South Wales.”  
Hornblower smiled; he was not entirely surprised to learn that a port which could not even put batteries on its main entrance employed a mere midshipman as a harbour master. “Captain Horatio Hornblower and Admiral Sir Edward Pellew.” As he spoke, Hornblower stood aside, drawing the young man’s attention to Pellew. Evidently Selwyn had not realised there was a flag officer aboard.  
“Sir!” Selwyn actually jumped to attention. He had been nervous before and he was ten times as nervous now as he found himself addressing an admiral; an admiral, moreover, whom he had managed to ignore when he first came aboard. “On the behalf of His Majesty’s Governor, sir, welcome.”  
Pellew’s smile as he came forward helped to put the young man at ease. “Thank you, Mr Selwyn,” he said, shaking his hand with unreserved warmth. Pellew realised that Selwyn had probably never seen an admiral before and he did

not think any the less of the young man for failing to greet him with the customary ceremony—a junior officer had little cause to learn his flags and pennants in a distant colony which no flag officer had ever visited. He also surmised, from Selwyn’s reaction, that the Admiralty’s letter had not arrived.  
“It’s an honour, My Lord,” Selwyn stammered. Pellew could only smile; evidently the young man had never met a baronet before, either.  
Hornblower watched the colour rise in the midshipman’s cheeks as he spoke to Pellew. He imagined that Selwyn felt woefully inadequate, as he himself would have felt, had he been required to pilot an admiral into port at that age.  
Selwyn did not know what Hornblower knew in hindsight: that Pellew had never been too proud to be kind to boys; that he had fallen in love with one, once.  
Hornblower stepped forward to save the young man from social awkwardness. “I believe you can guide us into Sydney Cove, Mr Selwyn?”  
“Yes I can sir,” said Selwyn, running his words together in his haste. “Then please proceed,” said Hornblower.  
The afternoon light turned golden as the little fleet closed the last few miles to Sydney Cove. Meanwhile there was a lively exchange of greetings between Hyacinth’s crew and the men from the boat, whenever they were not required to man the ropes; more lively than that between Hornblower, Pellew and the harbour master, though Selwyn did relax a little when Pellew excused himself.  
“When the station on the coast first reported you, sir, we thought you might be with the traders we had in yesterday,” Selwyn said when a straight stretch of harbour relieved him of the need to give instructions.  
“I gather you were not expecting us,” said Hornblower.  
“Ah, no sir—well, we didn’t know what to expect, sir. The governor wanted reinforcements, but…” The young man trailed off, but a glance in Pellew’s direction suggested what he was trying to say.  
“I see.” Hornblower thought for a moment. If Pellew was not expected, then the Admiralty’s letter could not yet have arrived and Governor King could not know that he was about to be outranked. Hornblower realised that he would have to explain to Selwyn for the colony to have any chance of receiving its new commander-in-chief with appropriate ceremony. It mattered to Hornblower as Pellew’s lover, even more than as a naval officer, that he should be properly received: Pellew had suffered a considerable slight when he was posted to the ‘South East Indies’ and Hornblower did not wish him to suffer a further slight by arriving amid surprise and raised eyebrows. Hornblower glanced at the admiral before saying, for Selwyn’s ears only, “I’m sure our commander-in-chief will explain everything when he meets the governor.”  
Selwyn did raise his eyebrows momentarily but he soon resumed an expression of careful deference. “I’m sure the governor will make his lordship most welcome, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Hornblower, smiling ever so slightly. Selwyn’s response gave him confidence that the admiral would indeed be well-received. He only hoped Pellew would not become too used to overblown titles: to judge by the look on his face when Selwyn called him ‘my lord’, Hornblower suspected he enjoyed it.


	7. Chapter 7

The fleet dropped anchor in Sydney Cove just as evening fell. The longboat carried Hornblower and Pellew ashore beneath a glorious orange sky that faded quickly to an ever-deepening purple. The town was quiet—the dockyards were still and the windmill turning silently on the western shore ground no grist—but faint lights showed in the modest houses that ringed the cove, and smoke rose from the chimneys. By the time the boat moored, they could barely see the figures moving about on shore. Everyone aboard was taken by surprise when a round of musket-fire rang out to salute the arriving admiral. Only then did they see the two lines of marines, arranged along the sides of the wharf, the white decorations on their uniforms violet in the last fast-fading light. The ceremony could not be Selwyn’s doing, Hornblower thought: someone on shore must have recognised the admiral’s pennant. He found himself strangely moved by the pageantry. Pellew, on the other hand, was the picture of unflappable authority. He did not flinch when shots were fired: a commander-in- chief expected no less and Pellew would accept no less, no matter how humble his station. No-one would have known, from his deportment, the distress this appointment had caused him.  
“There you are, Hornblower,” Pellew said quietly as they stepped out of the boat and onto the wharf, “your first steps on New South Welsh soil.”  
“Not quite.” For some reason, Hornblower found himself wanting to hold Pellew’s hand, not because he was unsteady on his feet—which he was, a little, after so many weeks at sea—but because he was moved by the fact that they had arrived, and arrived together. He felt like Aeneas in Pallanteum. “There,” he said, when they stepped off the wharf and onto solid ground.  
They had scarcely taken two steps when the governor came forward to greet them. They knew him at once: a round-faced man in a post-captain’s uniform. He was in his late forties but even in the twilight he looked older; his receding grey hair and drawn countenance were testimony to the ordeals of life in a far-flung penal colony. He bowed as low as a stout belly and gouty legs allowed. “Admiral Pellew, sir, your most humble servant, Captain Phillip King.” He straightened and offered Pellew his hand. “Welcome to New South Wales, sir.  
We are honoured by your presence.”  
Pellew nodded. He could not say that he was honoured to find himself in Sydney—Lord Melville had intended quite the opposite—but, after four months

at sea, he could forget that unpleasantness and, like Hornblower, take pleasure in the fact that he had arrived. The governor seemed gracious, at least. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Pellew, shaking his hand. “And may I introduce Captain Horatio Hornblower.”  
“An honour, captain.” King shook Hornblower’s hand. “Thank you, your excellency.”  
“I could hardly believe it when I saw your colours at the masthead,” King added, addressing himself to both men, “for it was only yesterday that I had the letter—”  
“—Only yesterday, indeed?” said Pellew, while Hornblower waited curiously for King to continue: he had been surprised to hear Pellew addressed by name, for Selwyn had not yet had a chance to speak to the governor and it was hardly likely that a man who had spent most of the last fifteen years in the colonies would recognise Pellew by sight or by Hyacinth’s number, if the news had not yet reached Sydney. Hornblower was relieved to learn that the letter had arrived before them—albeit by one day—since it had enabled King to receive Pellew with due fanfare and, more importantly, it relieved Pellew of the need to explain his own position: he was now King’s superior officer and such news was best broken in the words of mutually-binding authority.  
“Indeed, sir,” said King. “The letter arrived with the merchant convoy yesterday afternoon. I did not hope to expect you so soon.”  
“We were blessed by a swift passage.”  
“And we are all blessed by it. The Admiralty wrote that you were to sail in early spring.”  
“We left Portsmouth on the twenty-second of February, which makes…” Pellew looked at Hornblower. “How long, captain?”  
“One hundred and thirty-two days, sir,” Hornblower supplied promptly. He held Pellew’s eyes for a fraction of a second before adding, “it is the fourth today.”  
“One hundred and thirty-two! That is excellent time, sir,” said King. “Almost the fastest on record, I believe.”  
“All but a week were sailing days,” Pellew explained with a slight self- satisfied smile that was evident to Hornblower, though probably not to the governor. While he did not say so, Hornblower knew Pellew was comparing their progress to the Coromandel, the transport ship that had sailed non-stop to Port Jackson in one hundred and twenty-one days. He had not surpassed that record but Pellew had done well to come so close, despite the calms, the stop at Saint Helena, and Hotspur’s mishap in Bass’ Strait. If Pellew could not be proud of his posting, Hornblower was glad that he could at least take pride in having arrived so quickly.  
“As I say, sir, we must all give thanks.” King lowered his voice slightly. “I presume that you are familiar with the concerns I raised in my letters to the Admiralty?”

“Quite familiar, sir—as their Lordships no doubt informed you, it is precisely because of those concerns that I have been sent here. However, the letters I saw were of last year’s vintage. I would be grateful if you could inform me of any more recent developments.”  
King looked about before replying; the marines were still sanding to attention, awaiting further instructions, and it was very dark. “Certainly sir, though perhaps—”  
“Yes yes, of course.” Pellew hardly expected King to make his report then and there, in the dark wharf-side.  
King nodded courteously. “For now, perhaps you would do my wife and I the honour of dining with us?”  
“Thank you, sir.” Pellew glanced at Hornblower, who nodded his acceptance. There was no need for him to return to the ship immediately: he had left Bush in command and Bush was astute enough to know that, since Hornblower had gone ashore, he would most likely dine ashore. “We would be delighted,” Pellew added.  
“My pleasure.” King dismissed his officers, save for the bodyguard which escorted the governor and his guests up the hill to Government House. Pellew paced himself beside King, while Hornblower followed a little behind.  
“If you wish your officers to join us, sir, I can send a boat,” said King. “I’m sure they would thank you for the offer,” Pellew replied, “but I’ll let  
them languish on ship’s rations a day longer. It is dark and late, and I feel we have much to discuss.”  
“Indeed, sir,” said King. “But perhaps you will allow me to send fresh food and water in the morning.”  
“I would be grateful—I was going to ask that very thing.”  
“Of course, the colony’s resources are at your disposal. I will do everything I can to ensure that your men are comfortable, sir: there will be fresh vegetables and bread the moment it is out of the ovens tomorrow morning. If your purser provides a list, my staff will attend to your other requirements.”  
While Pellew and King talked, Hornblower observed his surroundings. Government House stood on the eastern side of Sydney Cove, separated from the main settlement by gardens and orchards. It was difficult to form opinions in the dark and from a distance but what Hornblower could see of the town was nothing like the ports he knew in Europe. No building was more than twenty years old and even the grandest structures were humble by English standards.  
Sydney had built and rebuilt itself according to the needs of a growing colony, and the result was an ad hoc, functional sort of town, with public buildings, shops, yards, storehouses interposed, leaving little space and fewer resources for aesthetics.  
Soon they reached Government House, a small white-washed building faced with twelve simple columns and a small pediment; a humble echo of the classical style so popular in England. It was no more than a cottage compared

with its counterparts in other ports, but the square windows were filled with a homely glow and the kitchen chimneys carried the scent of food.  
King led them into the entry hall, a narrow room with a black and white chequered floor and chairs along the walls for the governor’s callers. The floor was not marble, Hornblower realised when he stepped onto it: it was painted oilcloth, like the piece in Hyacinth’s great cabin. He doubted whether there was a real marble floor in all of New South Wales.  
“Given more notice, sir, I would have had a bullock slaughtered in honour of the occasion,” said King. “Alas, I can only offer pork and mutton: our herds are still small, and fresh meat is the least reliable of our commodities.”  
Pellew shook his head. “After four months at sea, sir, we will enjoy whatever you can offer us as if it had come from the King’s own table.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower, suppressing an embarrassed smile.  
Mercifully, the governor did not notice Pellew’s pun. “In that case, let us go in.” He led them into the dining room. It might have been a butler’s pantry in some English estates, but the modest room was elegantly furnished with a long table, burgundy drapes, and a portrait of King George above the mantelpiece.  
The ready-laid table was a particularly welcome sight after four months at sea. “My wife will join us shortly,” said King. “Tomorrow night, I shall organise a reception, that you might meet the officers—should you wish it, sir.”  
“Very much,” said Pellew. The chance to meet the men serving under him was just as appealing as the prospect of a fine meal.  
“In the meantime, sir, let me offer you a glass of wine.” King took a decanter from a mahogany cabinet. “I think this day calls for celebration.  
“Indeed, sir.” Despite his reluctance to come to Sydney, Pellew found himself agreeing.

“And which part of England do you call home?” Pellew asked Mrs Anna King as she and the three naval officers sat discussing life in the colony and what little they knew of the war back home.  
“I am from Devon,” the lady replied, “and Mr King from just over the border, in Launceston.”  
“Cornwall,” Pellew observed with approval; he always received fellow Cornishmen with a quaintly provincial enthusiasm.  
“You are from Cornwall yourself, are you not, sir?” the governor asked.  
Pellew nodded. “Penzance, though I now call Mylor home—that is, on those rare occasions when I am home.”  
“I remember the town, sir,” said King. “But it is frightening how much one does forget—Mrs King and I have spent ten of the last twenty years away from England.”  
“As have I,” said Pellew. “Or so my wife tells me.”  
“If I may ask, sir,” said Mrs King, “does your wife ever accompany you in your travels?”

“No, madam,” Pellew replied; a fleeting glance at Hornblower was private acknowledgement that he had someone else to share his cabin. “And, indeed, I think she would complain more of my constant presence than my constant absence.” He laughed, for he loved his wife and spoke lightly. “But she cannot insist that I am never home, for she would be quite at a loss to explain our brood!”  
Hornblower winced but the governor and his wife laughed obligingly. “You have children, Sir Edward?” said Mrs King.  
Pellew nodded. “Six.”  
Hornblower started at the word; Edward’s eldest son had been off Hyacinth’s starboard quarter for the better part of four months, but the other five children remained almost unreal in his mind.  
“So have we,” said Mrs King. “Our Philip, three girls and my husband’s two dear boys, but only Elizabeth and little Maria are with us here.”  
“We left the others in England,” her husband explained. “We miss them terribly, of course.”  
Pellew nodded in sympathy.  
“You’ll doubtless see our Elizabeth in the morning,” said Mrs King. “It’s well past her bed-time now.”  
“And you’ll meet my Pownoll,” said Pellew. “Captain of Pygmalion.”  
“I look forward to it, sir,” said the governor. He did not seem at all surprised that Pellew’s son was a captain in his fleet. “My two older boys are in the Navy,” he added and, when asked, proceeded to tell Pellew which ships they were in and who they had served with. Meanwhile Mrs King turned to Hornblower. He had said virtually nothing during the meal, preferring to let Edward carry the conversation, but Mrs King was a good hostess and she did not neglect him.  
“More bread, captain?” she offered. “And there’s plenty of mutton, should anyone want it.”  
“Thank you.” Hornblower smiled as he took a thick slice of bread; his fourth. To his long-deprived palate, fresh bread with fresh butter tasted even better than fresh meat.  
“I’ll have a little,” said Pellew. “You call this mutton but it might be spring

lamb!”

“You flatter our cook, sir,” said Mrs King.  
“Not above his deserts, madam, nor yours. It is a pleasure to taste meat

aged in a green paddock rather than a barrel of brine.” Mrs King laughed.  
“Sometimes, sir, our victuals are not far different from what your men are used to,” said her husband. “Even now we remain dependent on the Pacific Islands for meat, particularly salt pork.”  
“So I had heard,” said Pellew. “But it’s been many weeks since we saw anything of that hue.” He nodded at the dish of green vegetables.

King smiled. “I thank God for the success of our crops, sir.” He dabbed at his small bow-mouth with one corner of his napkin, then set it down on the table. “Should you wish, Sir Edward, I shall arrange a visit to the farm land at Parramatta. You would have use of the house that my predecessor built there—as well as this house, of course.” Despite the fact that he was living there with his family, King seemed to assume that the new commander-in-chief would take up residence in Government House.  
Pellew had no immediate plans; certainly none that involved uprooting the governor and his family. He thought of himself as a visitor in the colony rather than a resident. The particulars were yet to be agreed but he was happy for King to continue the ordinary business of governor. Pellew had no interest in petty matters and day-to-day administration; he had come as commander-in-chief and he was determined not to become a civil servant. “I’m sure Captain Hornblower would enjoy the visit,” he said. “He’s very fond of his vegetables, aren’t you, captain?” Pellew cast a fond glance across the table. “Will you have more beans?”  
“Not just yet, thank you sir,” said Hornblower replied, somewhat self- consciously. He had already served himself a large second helping.  
Pellew allowed himself to watch Horatio a moment longer before returning his attention to his hosts. But Mrs King’s eye was once again drawn to Hornblower.  
“You’re very quiet, captain,” she said. “You’re not unwell, I hope?” “No—I’m very well, thank you ma’am.” Hornblower did not like to be  
fussed over but he managed a smile.  
“And is your crew in good health, captain?” King asked from across the

table.

“Better than we could have hoped, sir,” said Hornblower. “We have had

no serious illness.” That was not quite true: a handful of men were in need of medical attention, but that was something to discuss with the governor later, not with his wife at the table, especially since one of the men was suffering from a suspected case of syphilis.  
“Not a sign of scurvy,” Pellew added, proudly.  
“That is wonderful to hear,” said Mrs King. “I remember ships calling here in a very poor state—sometimes dozens had lost their lives, and of those that did survive, a dreadful number had to be moved to our hospitals the moment they arrived.”  
Pellew nodded stiffly; Hornblower wondered whether Mrs King was referring to Captain Baudin’s ship. He had read that the crew was so ravaged by scurvy they could not put enough hands on deck to gain the Heads.  
“I think men have learned a lot about the prevention of disease since I first put to sea,” said King. “Scurvy, and smallpox—with this new inoculation, I hope we’ll be rid of that, too.”  
“By the end of the year, every child will have had the cow pox,” said Mrs  
King.

“It is a marvellous thing, madam,” said Pellew. He knew cow pox gave protection against the deadly small pox which he had survived as a child.  
The governor nodded. “Thanks to science, we should be rid of two dreadful diseases! Who would have thought the humble lime could have such powers?”  
“And it seems to me that the voyage is faster every year,” his wife added, turning to Hornblower. “Your journey took but four months, did it not, captain?”  
“Close to it, ma’am.”  
“Almost half what it took us at first,” King observed.  
“And how long do you expect to stay, captain?” said his wife. “That is not my decision.”  
“Until further orders,” Pellew answered soberly. For the first time that evening, he stopped to wonder how long that might mean. For all its purported tactical potential, New South Wales was at the rear end of the world. He had arrived quickly but he had arrived at a place where everything happened slowly. Orders from England might take six months to reach Sydney; King had come as governor in 1800 and was yet to be replaced, despite having offered his resignation two years earlier. Five years in this place—the very thought was unbearable. Pellew desperately hoped he would not share King’s fate.

Mrs King excused herself at the conclusion of the meal, leaving the men alone to discuss other matters.  
Pellew wasted no time. “Has there been some change in circumstances?” he asked; King had hinted as much when they met at the wharf.  
“Nothing definite, sir—indeed, had you asked me yesterday morning, I would have said nothing at all.”  
Pellew frowned. “Yesterday?”  
“The merchant ship which brought the Admiralty’s letter left Glasgow as a convoy of three, sir. Only two ships arrived yesterday.”  
Pellew leaned forward. “And the third?”  
“Lost, in Bass’ Strait.” There was a distant, almost despairing look in King’s eyes as he said those words.  
“And you suspect French involvement?” Pellew was aware of his own accelerated pulse, but he steadied himself, anxious not to become excited while he still knew so little. There were many reasons why a ship might go missing in those waters, and an enemy attack was the least likely. Yet the mere possibility of French activity in the region was exciting to Pellew, who had long feared the alleged threat had been drummed-up by the Admiralty.  
“I think we must consider the possibility, sir,” King said gravely. “But you have no other evidence.”  
“No, sir. The Hare was lost overnight in squally weather. Master  
Robertson might add a few details, but there is nothing more I can tell you.”

“It’s a dangerous passage,” Pellew said measuredly. “One of our sloops— the Hotspur—lost a spar in the strait. Thankfully we were able to find her—but we might easily have lost her.”  
King was nodding. “Of course, sir. Even in the short time we’ve known it, too many ships have come to grief on that coast. We need not blame the French for the loss of the Hare—but, in light of those concerns I raised, I think we cannot rule it out.”  
“What of the other ships—are they still in port?”  
“Yes sir—they came in yesterday afternoon. We are all praying that the third will join them soon.”  
“Mm.” Pellew pressed one knuckle to his lip.  
“If you like, sir, I can arrange for you to meet with Master Robertson.” “Yes, thankyou,” said Pellew, maintaining his thoughtful pose.  
Hornblower looked from admiral to governor. It seemed to him that both men were responding sensibly to the situation: they accepted French involvement as a possibility, but no more than that—in fact Pellew seemed almost disappointed that there was no firmer evidence of French activity in the area.  
King was rather more wary; that was a good sign, Hornblower supposed, for if King had been willing to regard a missing merchant ship as proof of French presence, that would be grounds to discount the concerns expressed in his letters to the Admiralty as mere paranoia. Even so, Hornblower was not confident in his own mind that Pellew’s mission was justified.  
“Otherwise,” King went on, “there is little I can tell you that was not already known when I wrote to the Admiralty—”  
“‘Unconfirmed reports of unauthorised shipping in British waters’, as I recall?” Pellew had read that letter several times.  
“Yes, sir: last year, two companies wrote to me of suspicious vessels. One claimed to be Portuguese—”  
“But was not?”  
“No sir,” said King. “At least, I was not aware of any such ship—but, since she was seen on the north coast, it’s quite possible that she was a merchant ship operating in violation of the monopoly rather than a hostile vessel.”  
Pellew nodded: from what he had heard from the Company officials in Jamestown, rival traders had little respect for the royal charter which granted the East India Company exclusive rights; indeed, the Lady Barlow had sailed from Port Jackson that January in open defiance of the Company’s monopoly. Pellew wondered if King ought to be counted amongst those with little respect for the charter; if he were commander-in-chief in the East Indies, he might have been called upon to intervene, but that was a matter for Troubridge now.  
“The other incident is most curious,” King went on. “One of our whalers encountered a ship in a bay on the southern coast, and accused the master of breaching my regulations—I have attempted to control the competing companies, you see, sir. He replied—and by all accounts he was French, or

something like it—that he intended no breach, and had simply been blown off his course. But he also said—and this is the most troublesome part—that he disputed the authority of a British governor to regulate whaling in international waters.”  
“Did he, indeed?” Pellew’s brows arched indignantly. “‘International waters’, indeed!”  
“Indeed, sir,” said King. “My greatest concern, throughout this entire business, has been France’s lack of respect for our flag.”  
“Because they want a piece of this for themselves, don’t they!” Pellew blustered. But, before he could be carried away on his own words, he stopped to ask, “What happened to the French whaler?”  
“She set sail, and was not seen again.”  
“Hmph. I presume she managed to keep her course well enough after

that.”

“Apparently,” said King. “The thing is, sir—” “Yes?”  
“She was not a whaler. She was whaler-sized, hove-to in a feeding ground,

but our ship did not see a single boat or a single carcass.” “Then what in God’s name was she doing?”  
“I cannot say, sir.”  
Pellew frowned. “How long ago was this?”  
“January, sir. I did send a party as far south as Bateman Bay, but there was no sign of her then and none since. I did hope the French had lost interest, but it seems the Admiralty feel otherwise—though my report cannot have reached England before you left.”  
Pellew shook his head. The East India Company had raised some general concerns, but Lord Melville had not been able to provide any concrete evidence of French shipping around New South Wales. Pellew wondered whether Melville would have been surprised to hear that a French ship had been seen in British waters, or whether he gave the Admiralty too little credit when he dismissed the French threat as an empty pretext. What King had told him was something at least; though, even if the whaler was a Frenchman in disguise, one small ship hardly justified sending an admiral out from England.  
Evidently King was thinking the same thing. “I confess my surprise, sir, that the Admiralty should have responded so strongly—I never dreamed I would see an admiral in these waters.”  
“Neither did I,” Pellew muttered, but otherwise he retained his composure. He realised then that King did not know of Péron’s invasion plan; of course, since the Admiralty would be reluctant to entrust such intelligence to the merchant mail. “I think the threat may be greater than you fear.”  
King looked alarmed.  
“Prompted by your letter, our agents in Paris got hold of a document which described how French forces might land in Sydney and seize control of the

colony.” Pellew spoke quickly and keenly; the ‘invasion plan’, which previously he had treated with such scepticism, sounded more convincing in light of what King had said. It was crucial that King should know of it, since he would be better able than anyone to assess the strengths and weaknesses of the scheme. “There were also a number of maps—” Pellew added, but he stopped speaking when he saw the stunned expression on the governor’s face.  
“The work of Captain Baudin’s expedition, sir?” Unlike Pellew, King pronounced French names perfectly.  
“Yes. The author was François Péron—perhaps you met the man?” King’s doughy face twisted in disgust. “He was a naturalist, on Captain  
Baudin’s ship. He dined in this house several times. He… he collected things, sir: plants, birds, small animals…” King shook his head. “I had my doubts about the purpose of that expedition, sir. With relations between our two countries so uncertain, I could not help but wonder, but I was reassured that they came in the name of science. Well, I gave them every assistance: the crew was in a terrible state, sir, when the Géographe put in—only twelve men aboard her fit to keep watch! And I spent a great deal of time with Captain Baudin. He gave me no cause to doubt.” King broke off; he looked to Pellew for judgement.  
“Carry on, sir,” Pellew said calmly. He was not interested in what Governor King should or should not have done three years earlier; he was interested only in learning as much as he could about the French expedition and what it might mean for the task at hand.  
King sighed. “I took some pains to assure myself of the captain’s honesty.  
I counted him a friend, sir! We spent countless hours in conversation over the months he was here, and at no time did he give me cause to suspect that the product of his researches would be an invasion plan!” He sighed again. “It is unfortunate that Colonel Paterson did not choose to raise the matter with me until our guests had left Sydney—”  
“What matter?” said Pellew.  
“The matter of a French settlement at Storm Bay Passage, sir; that was what prompted me to despatch the Cumberland in such haste.”  
“Of course,” said Pellew. Storm Bay Passage was on the south-eastern coast of Van Diemen’s Land; Pellew had read King’s letters to the Admiralty, in which he explained that he had sent Lieutenant Robbins after Baudin on the pretext of founding a British settlement there, to make quite clear that British claims extended both sides of Bass’ Strait. Robbins had intercepted the French at King’s Island, where he delivered a letter from the governor and removed any possible ambiguity the message by hoisting the British flag on the island. Baudin had continued on his voyage after finishing a survey of the island, but whether his compatriots would respect the British flag remained to be seen.  
“Colonel Paterson obtained a chart showing the place, shortly before the French sailed, sir.” King wrung his hands in an absent-minded, agitated fashion. “As I say, it was unfortunate that he did not show it to me earlier, for I would

certainly have questioned Captain Baudin in person—yet I see now that I would have been questioning the wrong man.”  
“How so?” said Pellew.  
“It was Péron who gave that chart to Colonel Paterson.” King sighed again. “I cannot help but feel that I wasted my efforts, sir: I exerted myself to know the captain’s mind, I doubted my friend—God rest his soul—and all the while this naturalist had the run of the colony and a free hand to commit his espionage. A naturalist, egad!” He shook his head. “I beg your pardon, sir.”  
“Not at all: your hospitality was rankly abused.” Pellew wondered how King would react when he read in Péron’s own words how the young man boasted of having deceived the governor and all his staff. “I take it that Colonel Paterson did not know the full extent of Péron’s aspirations?”  
“No, sir. The man had us all fooled, and even when that chart was in my hands I could not be sure whether the idea of a French settlement was anything more than a young man’s daydream. If only I had known then what I know now!” King had gone red in the face. “Sir, I believe he had even Captain Baudin fooled. On my word, he was an honest man.”  
“I do not doubt it, sir.” Pellew had no reason to question the governor’s estimate of Baudin; at any rate, the man was dead. “I too find Péron’s behaviour contemptible—contemptible, but not unintelligent. I would not be surprised to learn that he had deceived his captain.”  
“But presumably Péron knows his draft has been stolen,” said Hornblower, interjecting for the first time. “It would be imprudent to implement that plan in its particulars.”  
Pellew blinked; he had been so engrossed in his conversation with King that he had almost forgotten Hornblower was there—but the point was valid. “Mm,” he nodded. “However, we cannot assume the French share your prudence. That is, we cannot assume that they will see our prior knowledge as an impediment to their success. Péron wrote quite confidently that he could stop up the harbour with a single frigate.”  
“Péron, perhaps, but the entire chain of command?” Hornblower would not simply assume the French were stupid and he knew Pellew was not inclined to make such assumptions, either. At Quiberon Bay, they had both seen the consequences of underestimating one’s enemy.  
“You’re right as always, captain—but the French don’t know we’re here. I think that tips the odds in our favour.” Only when Hornblower nodded did Pellew continue. “I think the prudent course is to take steps against the plan as written—steps that will strengthen the colony’s defences in any case.” He looked at King. “As to the particulars, perhaps they are better left to the morrow?”  
“Certainly, sir,” said King, sounding less than certain. “But… pardon me, sir, but may I ask what this plan entails?” Somehow Pellew had forgotten to explain.

“A direct attack, landing at Port Jackson or one of the beaches to the south. Two thousand troops would march on Sydney, free the Irish and seize control of the colony, then blockade the harbour entrance to prevent us from reclaiming it.”  
“Oh.” King looked ill. “Irish prisoners? Then Péron is intelligent. You will have heard of the rebellion here last year, which I was obliged to quash by force of arms. It was the Irish stirring up trouble on the farms, crying ‘death or liberty’, with their heads full of ideas… they’ve thrown in their lot with France before and they’ll do it again, given the chance—half the rebels of Ninety-Nine wound up here.”  
“Then we must attend to the Irish as well as the French,” said Pellew. “Our first priority will be to disembark the marines—come morning, you’ll have another hundred men to guard against further insurrection.”  
“That will be a great comfort, sir.”  
“In the longer term, I propose to take my lead from Monsieur Péron and fortify the harbour entrance. I believe, as he does, that batteries on North and South Head would make Port Jackson impregnable. A detailed plan will take time, of course, but I can tell you now that Hyacinth is carrying four cannon for that purpose.”  
“Excellent, sir,” said King, who had brightened considerably at the mention of a concrete plan. “I am very glad you are here.” He may have been the governor, but it seemed to Hornblower that King was a man happier to receive orders than to give them.

The three men talked a while longer and agreed to meet again the next day, once the marines had disembarked and Master Robertson had delivered his report. By then the mantel clock was showing ten.  
“Do you plan to return to your ship tonight, sir?” King asked. “If not, there are rooms ready for you—pending more permanent arrangements, of course.”  
Pellew glanced at Hornblower, who could not tell what response that look invited.  
“Should I return to the ship, sir?” he asked.  
Pellew shook his head. “It’s late. I’ll stay here tonight—and I give you my permission to sleep on shore, captain.”  
“Thank you sir,” said Hornblower. Pellew’s meaning was clear enough. “Then let me show you to your rooms, gentlemen.” King rose. “I’m afraid  
they’re not what I would like to be able to offer you—this house was built for Captain Phillip the year we arrived. None of us imagined then that an admiral would one day live in it.” Evidently King expected Pellew to move into Government House; perhaps he would, but for the time being there were more important questions to consider.

“I’m sure we will be perfectly comfortable,” said Pellew, following the governor up the creaky narrow stair. “As you know, sir, even a small house is more spacious than a ship—unless, perhaps, one’s name is Nelson.” An admiral’s domain aboard a three-decker like the Victory was probably more generous than any room in Sydney’s Government House; certainly more generous than what Pellew had grown used to aboard Hyacinth.  
King almost laughed. “In that case, gentlemen…” He indicated two rooms: a small bed chamber and an even smaller room, barely larger than the bed that was in it.  
“Thank you,” said Pellew. He turned to Hornblower. “Look, captain—a real mattress.” He nearly winked.  
Hornblower responded with a strangled cough. Of course, the governor would not read anything improper into the remark, but Hornblower remained wary since he and Edward had nearly been discovered in bed together, ten days earlier. “Thank you,” he said quietly.  
King nodded. “Then I shall leave you. Until tomorrow afternoon, sir—or tomorrow morning, I should say: please do join my wife and I for breakfast.”  
“With pleasure, sir,” said Pellew. “A good night to you.”  
Pellew and Hornblower found themselves alone in the larger of the two rooms. It was rather boxy, with sallow old wallpaper, a simple dresser and a feather bed, waist-high and just wide enough for a husband and wife. But the bed was neatly made with the curtains pulled back invitingly, and the candle on the nightstand—wax, not tallow—burned with a cosy light. Minutes before, they had been talking of war but now Hornblower found himself yawning.  
“Are you tired, Horatio? You were quiet at dinner.” “I had little to say. I was listening.”  
“Mm.” Pellew walked over to the window and made a chink in the drapes, but he could see nothing bar a black night and the blurry reflection of his own face where his breath fogged the glass. “And what do you make of it all?”  
Hornblower was not sure how to reply. The conversation with King appeared to have convinced Pellew that the French threat was real; King certainly believed it and Hornblower wished he could believe it, too, but his doubts remained. “The governor is concerned, sir,” he replied, side-stepping the question.  
“Well, naturally: missing ships and mysterious whalers!” Pellew let the curtains fall closed again. “And we should not discount out of hand Monsieur Péron and his little plan.”  
“At least not until we know more,” said Hornblower. “Nothing the governor said suggested an invasion force—”  
“No. But it did suggest continued French interest in the region—as of last year, at any rate.”

“Yes,” Hornblower agreed without reservation. He was pleased to see Edward had not let his excitement cloud his judgement; that he still saw a French attack as a possibility rather than a probability.  
“Looking for a place for settlement, do you think?” As he spoke, Pellew explored his accommodations—the dresser drawers; the bed linen; the maker’s mark on the wash stand porcelain—his manner making it quite clear that he was only speculating.  
“Possibly, sir, though I would have thought that was Péron’s task.”  
Having found nothing to interest him in the small room, Pellew folded his hands behind his back. “Passing traffic, then? Or all show, like the trinity we met in the Atlantic?”  
“Or coincidence?”  
“Or coincidence, indeed.” Pellew stopped. He looked sidelong at Hornblower. “However… however, we have a more pressing matter to attend to, captain.”  
“Sir?” Hornblower was suddenly weary of French ships and Irish convicts, but it was Pellew’s prerogative to talk all night if he wanted to.  
“Which room will we sleep in?” Pellew’s eyes ran all over Hornblower, signalling his change of mood. “This one’s an obnoxious colour, but the other’s no more than a cupboard—though it can’t be smaller than the little box you’ve been penned up in.” Something in Edward’s eyes hinted that he enjoyed the thought of his young lover penned up.  
Hornblower met his eyes gamely. “I think Governor King assumed that you would sleep in this room and I in the other.”  
“Never mind Governor King—and if that’s your opinion, sir, I revoke my  
permission. You may find a boat and return to your little box aboard ship.”  
Hornblower’s jaw dropped. Edward sounded so brusque that it took him longer than usual to realise he was bluffing. “Edward—”  
“A happy birth-day to you.” Edward’s eyes smiled; once again Horatio was taken by surprise. “You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you.”  
“I—”  
“Well, I had. I confess it.”  
“It’s not important,” said Hornblower. Their arrival in Sydney was the more momentous event; he did not add that he might have forgotten Edward’s birth-day, back in April, but for Pygmalion’s signal.  
“But I should have remembered it,” said Edward. “You’re twenty-nine today. Pownoll was twenty-four on the first.”  
Hornblower nodded slightly; he would have preferred not to be reminded of the fact that he was only five years older than Edward’s son.  
“Twenty-nine.” Pellew tried to look away, but he was stuck in Horatio’s beautiful brown eyes like a fly in treacle. “Just twenty-nine, by God, and I—”  
“—Edward, please.” Hornblower did not mind the years between them— he had said so countless times—but he wished Edward had forgotten his

birthday if he was going to make a fuss of it. It discomfited him, so he put a stop to it and drew Edward into his arms. The embrace soothed them both, as sweetly and as magically as the sun ripens fruit. After more than a week without the slightest touch, it was like coming home. Horatio’s frustration faded as he remembered how much he liked to hold and be held. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured to Edward’s hair; to his cheek. “It never mattered. I love you.”  
“And I have never understood—”  
Hornblower drew back an inch. “Do you doubt me?”  
“No.” Edward pulled him close again. “I only doubt that I deserve to be so blessed.”  
Horatio went slack in his arms and they held each other for some time. Edward looked at the picture they made in the mirror. He saw two mismatched figures—an older man and a younger man, a stout man and a slim man, an admiral and a captain—and for some time he stared, compared, despaired at the unbalanced equation written out too clearly in the dressing table mirror. But then he saw the beauty of two bodies embracing each other with the perfect natural symmetry of leaves in the bud. It was natural, he thought; they may have been unmatched in years but they fitted each other perfectly, like two trees that had grown together or the twin halves of a peach. He smiled and stroked Horatio’s hair. “Good God, what would poor Governor King say if he came in now?”  
Hornblower lifted his head. “I think he would say nothing. You’re his superior officer.”  
Edward laughed gently. “And I suppose we’re not doing as much harm as a pair of naturalists.”  
“We’re not doing any harm,” said Hornblower, pulling free. “To anyone  
else, or to each other.” With those words, he answered the question Edward had not asked when he wondered how Horatio could love him.  
Pellew understood. “Come now,” he sighed. “I meant to congratulate you, not weigh us down with turgid talk.”  
“Did you?” Horatio’s serious features became a sly smile. “I took the impression you meant to get me in bed.”  
Edward laughed. “You see right through me—but it’s your birth-day.  
What would you like to do?”  
“I would like to go to bed.”  
“Is that so?” Edward came closer—close enough to kiss—but Horatio remained motionless. He kept Edward waiting as long as he could maintain his own mask.  
“I would like to open my present first.”  
Edward looked crestfallen. “But I have nothing to give you.”  
“Yes you do.” The slightest hint of a smile played in Horatio’s eyes. “It’s right in front of me.” He looked Edward up and down to make his meaning clear.  
“Me?” He was genuinely surprised.

“Yes.” Horatio ran a hand over Edward’s crisp white neckcloth, his lavish gold lace and his red satin sash. “All wrapped up.”  
It was Edward’s turn to squirm; this was the sort of game he usually played and he did not enjoy it so much with the tables turned. “Horatio, don’t make a fool of me,” he said, even as he found his coat stripped from him.  
“I’m not,” Hornblower said calmly. “I love you.”  
“But…” No matter how many times he heard them, those three words threw Edward off course. “You deserve a much better present,” he stammered, but his protest was in vain, for the young man promptly relieved him of his neckcloth and waistcoat.  
“I like this one,” said Hornblower. Soon he was tugging at Edward’s shirt. “What could be nicer than this?” He pushed a hand inside and laid it over his heart.  
“Oh Horatio, it’s horrible!” “It isn’t.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“I’m not.” Hornblower met his lover’s eyes. “As I recall, you said the same thing on my birth-day.”  
“That was different,” said Edward; he was different, that was precisely the  
point. “You’re… you’re…” It was impossible to say in a word what Hornblower was: brave, beautiful, brilliant—yet somehow he had fallen in love with his captain when surely he could have done better. “You’re perfect,” Edward finished. He counted himself lucky indeed.  
Horatio let out an exasperated sigh. He had been playing a game with no goal in mind besides winding up in bed, like they had not let themselves do for days. But Edward would not play. He was too stubbornly sentimental; he wanted to talk when Hornblower had other ideas about how they might use their lips. “Don’t speak,” he whispered, and caressed Edward’s cheek, his hair, his neck, pulling him closer and kissing him more deeply still, till they both gasped for breath. Edward emerged from that kiss transformed like a butterfly; all his sentimentality swept away by something more sensual.  
“Where have all my clothes gone?” he breathed, his dark eyes making enquiry of his lover’s. “Is this what happens if I leave you alone for a week?” Horatio’s lips clamped indignantly but Edward grabbed him, growling “Come here!”  
Their lips met more forcefully than before. Horatio gasped but did not resist while Edward wrestled the coat from his back. “I can hardly find you for all these clothes,” he said, running his hands up and down Horatio’s sides, appreciating his firm slender form through the layers of fabric. He relieved Horatio of his waistcoat then came to his trousers. “Oh dear, these are a little tight,” he laughed; they grew tighter still under his touch.  
“So are yours,” Hornblower retaliated.

“Well, are you going to finish unwrapping your present, or will I have to call Merrick for assistance?”  
“Sorry?” Horatio was distracted. He had forgotten that it was his birth- day and that he had left Edward half-dressed; he had even forgotten that he was in Sydney. For the first time in what felt like a long time, he had let himself forget everything except the wonderful feel of the strong warm hand that still lingered on his thigh. Four months’ intimacy followed by ten days’ abstinence had left him full of lust.  
“I mean your fat old admiral, since you’re fool enough to love him.” Edward smiled. “Now give me a hand with these buttons and I might give you a hand with—”  
“—Edward!” Horatio laughed, and shut him up with a kiss. It was not long before they were both completely naked.  
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Pellew, looking down at himself.  
Horatio came forward to clothe him with his arms. “When were you ever embarrassed?” Edward was usually happy to stomp about tugging at his stockings, with not a scrap of fabric to batten down the rest; Horatio could not see why he should be embarrassed now, except that Edward had been a little anxious all evening. “This is wonderful,” he said, running appreciative hands over Edward’s strong shoulders and his broad back. He was admirably built, Horatio thought; more powerfully than himself. “I hope I’ll have your figure one day.”  
“And I hope you don’t. I’m not sure all of that’s muscle, Horatio.” “Nonsense,” the young man replied, and looked into his eyes so earnestly  
that Edward did not know what to say except “I love you, Horatio.” “I love you too.”  
“I know you do.” Edward found Horatio’s wrist and held it; he could feel his blood pulsing beneath his thumb.  
Again they stalled, holding hands, transfixed by each others’ eyes.  
Wonderful eyes, Hornblower thought: Edward’s eyes were two deep pools of meaning that could say everything or nothing at all; two fiery coals that burned sometimes with love and sometimes with anger. Those eyes were powerful, irresistible, beautiful; when he looked into them, he did not need to look any further to see that Edward was beautiful. Those bright dark eyes drew his every feature together into a countenance as intelligent, confident and commanding, humorous, loving and kind as Horatio knew he was. He did not understand how Edward could see himself in a mirror and yet wonder that he was loved; he did not know, as he looked into Edward’s eyes, that he was looking at a mirror of his own mind, for Edward was thinking almost the same thing. Horatio’s eyes worked on him like some magical jewel, more potent than any potion and more beautiful than the stars. They were the most beautiful eyes in the world, he was sure of it, and only with great effort could he make himself look away.  
“We were going to bed, I believe?” he asked huskily. “Yes,” said Horatio. He did not move.

“Does that door lock?” Horatio glanced at it. “No.”  
“I doubt anyone would barge in here without knocking.” “What about the other room?”  
“What about it?” Edward retained a possessive grip on his lover’s wrist, but Horatio had no intention of leaving.  
“It will be obvious that no-one has slept in it.” “You might be a very light sleeper.”  
“Not that light.” Horatio smiled; both rooms had feather mattresses. “Well, we can mess that one up first, if you prefer?”  
“Edward! We are not going to frolic naked in Government House!” “Oh, Hornblower! ‘Frolic naked’?” Pellew chuckled. “A shame—I rather  
fancy the idea.”  
Horatio replied with a saucy look, “But there’s more room in here.”  
There was no time to draw breath before they were in each other’s arms again, tumbling to the feather bed. The soft mattress quickly sunk, thrusting them together.  
“I had forgotten what this is like,” Edward laughed. “Am I crushing you?” “No.”  
“Then shall we close the curtains before we sink entirely?”  
“Yes.” Horatio tugged at the drapes across so the bed was completely enclosed. Edward watched him, admiring his neat round bottom and his strong back. Then Hornblower lay down, pressed very close to him in the depression they had made.  
“I can’t see a thing,” Edward murmured. Only the faintest light filtered through the curtains.  
“It’s dark.”  
“No, I’m blind. It’s cruel, Horatio, it really is: I know how beautiful you are, but I can’t see you when I’m kissing you.”  
“Then close your eyes.”  
It did not take them long to find each other in the dark. They did not need to see when they could touch each other’s skin, feel each other’s warmth and breathe each other’s breath. But their kisses were somehow restless, somehow restrained. Neither failed to notice.  
“What’s the matter?” Edward whispered, his lips brushing his lover’s

cheek.

“Nothing, only…” Horatio laid his hand on Edward’s hot belly and

pushed down to where he stood, half-aroused. “Only, after such a lead-in…”  
Edward drew breath sharply when Horatio’s hand closed around him. “I have a plan,” he rasped, and responded in kind.  
But Hornblower was thinking of something else. By lead-in he did not mean the protracted process of removing each other’s clothes nor the things they had said that night. He was thinking of the journey they had made: in four

months they had spent more time together than they had in years and more nights together than he could count. They knew each other better, they understood each other better, and they were more in love than ever before. They confided everything in each other. They could communicate in a word or a touch or a look; even on deck, with other officers about, they could carry on a conversation without words. With that closeness came an easiness that Hornblower had never known. He had been shy as a lieutenant; shy after every separation; shy when they met in London, but he was not shy now, though they had not touched in more than a week—and a week seemed a long time where once they had counted themselves lucky to meet every few months. They had misjudged each other once, that night at the equator, where water flows the wrong way and the world turns upside down. But they had not been wrong, Horatio told himself, only the timing was not right. Now it was right; now they had completed one journey together it seemed natural that they should complete another. “So do I,” he said, and guided Edward’s hand to his behind.  
Edward squeezed, even before he understood the suggestion, and his touch sent a thrill through Horatio’s body that seemed to confirm everything. He rolled onto his back, parting his thighs as he had once before and pulling Edward with him. “Your birth-day, do you remember?”  
“Horatio, I—” Edward remembered, he understood, and the idea was irresistible. He ran his hand up Horatio’s thigh and between his legs, until he found the hot tender spot that made the young man tremble all over. Horatio clutched at his shoulders and kissed him again, welcoming Edward’s tongue between his lips as a prelude to what came next. It would too easy, Edward thought; too sweet. He was achingly aroused and each kiss only increased the agony of two bodies that wanted to be locked like lips. He sweated, he throbbed with desire, he threw one knee over and then he stopped. He could not give in to temptation because he could not forget the fear in Horatio’s eyes the last time he had. He retreated, snatching ragged breaths. He could barely see in the dark— barely think—but he could feel eyes upon him.  
“Edward?” Horatio was not frightened; he wondered what had happened. “Horatio… why?” Edward’s voice was husky.  
“Because you want to.” Horatio kissed his hand. “Because I want to.” He almost laughed. “I want to know why I want to.” He could not explain any better than that. He did not know what he wanted except that he wanted something—  
just like, as a boy, he had not known why he wanted to touch himself until he tried. Now he took Edward in hand; it seemed the only way to find out.  
“Horatio!” Edward twitched; he was torn between fierce desire and fretful concern for the young man, just twenty-nine and so very beautiful, who was offering him what he had given no-one. Edward took a deep unsteady breath and shook his head, as though to rouse himself from a dream, but still that elegant hand slid over his swollen prick. “You can’t want to,” he whispered.  
“I do.”

“You…” Edward spluttered, “You might just let me come off!”  
“No.” The word shot out as Horatio threw himself onto his other side. He was offended: he was not begging; he only offered what they both wanted.  
“Horatio…” Edward was contrite. “Horatio, I did not mean—”  
“No,” said Horatio, as forcefully as before. His face was turned away and his cheeks were flushed.  
For a minute they both lay frozen but furiously hot. They could not quite lie apart in that soft feather bed and Edward was acutely aware of the shoulder against his shoulder; the firm round bottom against his hip. Eventually he dared to touch Horatio’s arm and stroke his back, hoping to pacify him even if he did not want his apology.  
Horatio relented a little at the touch. He sighed, “I want you to trust me enough not to tell me what I do and do not want.”  
Edward nodded in the dark. Hornblower was a grown man; a post- captain, not some rash youth foolish with passion. If he could be trusted with the lives of four hundred men, he could be trusted with his own. Anything less was worse than hypocrisy—it was insulting—yet somehow Hornblower forgave him; somehow he still wanted him.  
“Stop resisting,” he urged. “You told me we would do what we want.” “I said we would do what you want.” Edward’s hand stilled on Horatio’s  
back and an age seemed to pass with no sound but his own pulse pounding in his head like a tattoo, a call to arms. He knew what to do; Horatio had left him no choice. If he trusted him, he had to do it, and Edward trusted him more than he trusted himself. Courage came from within: the impetuous hot blood drumming in his ears flooded his groin till he hurt with wanting. He could not remember the last time he had wanted so fiercely. He was like a young man, like an animal, in awe of his own virility; he would have him. He turned onto his side, took Horatio by the hip, pulled him close and pressed against him. Flesh struck flesh like flint and Edward was afire. He pushed—but Horatio was too tense to allow him inside. Edward groaned as he met hard muscle. He was hungry enough to force his way but love made him gentle.  
“Horatio—”  
“Yes,” came the reply, without awaiting a question.  
Edward rubbed Horatio’s shoulders and nuzzled at his neck. “Then you must try to relax.” Horatio did not speak, but he breathed more easily, and each breath took away a little of the tension. Edward ran a hand down his flank. “Horatio?”  
Horatio grabbed his hand and held it there. “Don’t say another word.”  
Edward swallowed and wrapped his arms around his waist. He was less aware now of the heat of his own body than the warm body in his arms, breathing in time with him. It felt right; Horatio felt it too, for every breath they took together left him more supple, so their bodies fitted together easily. “May I tell you I love you?” Edward whispered, his words hot on Horatio’s ear.

“Yes.” Edward could hear the smile in Horatio’s voice. “I love you, Horatio.”  
“I love you too,” Horatio sighed. At last he was pliant enough for Edward to push inside.  
“Heavens,” Pellew breathed as he sunk himself in the young man’s body. The feeling was so overwhelming that at first he thought he could not move; the next moment he wanted to ravish him so ravenously that only through fear of hurting him could he hold back at all. The arms which had held his beloved so tenderly now braced him while Edward thrust as deeply as he dared; the lips which had whispered soft things now crushed against Horatio’s neck in a flurry of kisses. Then Edward calmed himself; he kissed the damp skin between Horatio’s shoulder blades and listened for every noise he made—perhaps in pleasure, perhaps in pain.  
There was pain; Hornblower could not ignore it completely. He moaned when Edward drove into him and whimpered as he moved within, but what he felt was more complex than pain and far more pleasurable. Never before had they known such closeness: the fact was exciting and the sensation strangely satisfying. Horatio began to move, too. He hooked one foot around Edward’s knee and arched his spine to meet his hips. That was better; his heart beat harder and his breath came faster as he began to understand the unnamed desire buried somewhere within him.  
Harder, faster: Edward was reaching his climax but, even in his ecstasy, he did not fail to notice the change Horatio; the new sounds he made as they moved in time with one another. He understood almost before Horatio did: something had stirred to life in the core of his body and it escaped in low muffled cries. “Oh,” Hornblower groaned, recognising it only then—a strange searing passion that was unlike anything he had experienced before and somehow more intense. He moaned again—and again when Edward took hold of him so they came forth together, he into Horatio and Horatio into his hand.  
Soon they were lying side by side in each other’s arms, hot-and-cold and clammy with sweat that clung to the bed sheets. Edward’s heart thumped and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath—but even in the heady aftermath he thought of Horatio. “Are you well?” he whispered, “Horatio?” Edward knew he had to trust him—he did trust him—but Horatio was so still he could not help but ask.  
“Yes.” The reply lagged and, when it came, Horatio’s voice was shaky; he was shaky from his insides out. He was exhausted and a little sore and quite overwrought.  
“Horatio?”  
“I’m perfectly well.” He reached for Edward’s hand and found it sticky. “Oh!” He swallowed the word.  
“What is it?” Edward asked anxiously.

Horatio squeezed his hand by way of an answer. “I think we have abused the governor’s hospitality.”  
“I see what you mean.” Edward laughed, relieved. “Well, there’s always the other room.”  
“Not tonight,” Horatio sighed. As the euphoria faded, he became aware of the chaffing ache their passion had left behind.  
“Of course that’s not what I meant,” Edward said hastily. “Here.” He gathered Horatio into his arms. “How could I want for anything more?”  
Horatio did not reply; he was worried about the warm wetness that ran out of him when he rolled over. He was sore and it was possible he had bled. He did not want Edward to know but he would have no choice if he had stained the bed—that would be the more worrying of the stains when the chamber maid came in the morning. But Horatio was too tired to wash and soon too tired to worry. He curled against Edward; he was more comfortable like that.  
Edward kissed the curly head cradled in the crook of his arm. “You know I love you, Horatio.” He had said it many times that night but he felt he could never say it enough. “I love you so very much.”


	8. Chapter 8

Pellew knew before he opened his eyes—perhaps even before he woke— that he was alone. Horatio had gone to the other room, he realised, remembering in the same heart beat what they had done the night before. Only then did he recall that he was in a strange bed in a strange country; that was of secondary importance. Of all mornings, this was one morning when they should have woken together.  
That thought forced his sluggish form from the bed. He pulled on the shirt and breeches Horatio had removed so lovingly the night before. Every buckle and every button hole reminded him of what they had done together; were it not for the happy jumble of clothes still strewn across the floor, he might have thought it all a dream. He went to the other bedroom but found only the disturbed sheets where his beloved had been. So he finished dressing and went downstairs, where he found Hornblower breakfasting with Mrs King.  
“Good morning, Sir Edward,” the lady greeted him, reaching for the coffee pot.  
“Good morning, madam.” Pellew looked at Mrs King as he spoke but he did not see her; instead he saw Horatio, sitting quietly on the other side of the table with a plate before him, half-empty. But soon a servant was pulling back a chair and Mrs King was pouring a cup of coffee, and Pellew did not have a chance to say anything more than a second “Good morning” as he took his seat and Mrs King filled his cup.  
“Thank you.” Pellew stirred his coffee slowly—a few moments’ respite from the morning bustle. It was too much all at once: he had been awake only ten minutes and already he found himself struggling to keep pace with his voluble hostess while he was preoccupied by thoughts of Horatio.  
“Mr King sends his apologies, Sir Edward, but he was out early,” she was saying. “Some business to attend to before he meets you—at least, that is what he mumbled to me as he fell out of bed this morning!”  
“Of course.” As far as Pellew was concerned, the apology was unnecessary.  
He had quite enough to think about over breakfast without the governor and Master Robertson’s report as well. He looked at Hornblower; even as he listened to Mrs King—or at least made the right replies—Pellew could not keep his eyes off the young man sitting so quietly on the far side of the table. Hornblower had not looked at him once since he entered the room.

Mrs King seemed not to notice Pellew’s preoccupation; if she did, it did not show. “He asked me to say that he will meet you this morning as agreed,” she went on. “But I must stop talking and let you have some breakfast!” She gestured to a servant and, moments later, Pellew was presented with a plate of eggs and fat sausages.  
“Thank you,” he said. “This is undoubtedly the best breakfast I’ve seen in months.”  
Pellew was pleased to find that Mrs King did not expect her guests to speak with their mouths full. As long as he kept eating he had a chance to think, and he thought constantly about Horatio. He looked well enough but it was impossible to tell how he felt if Horatio would not look at him. Was he avoiding his eyes, Edward wondered? He wished they could be alone together, even for a minute. There was nothing he could say with Mrs King there; nothing he could do without looking Horatio in the eye. Pellew was increasingly agitated. It pained him to think of Horatio stumbling off to a strange cold bed in the pre- dawn dark, alone and probably uncomfortable. He had done it, no doubt, to protect their secret, but Edward could not ignore the possibility that Horatio did not wish to lie with him; did not wish to speak to him; that the night’s pleasure had been a one-sided affair. Suddenly his fine breakfast did not seem so appealing.  
“Did you sleep well, Sir Edward?” Mrs King asked, when she saw he was not eating.  
“Yes, thank you,” Pellew stammered automatically; he could not be sure that the lady had not asked five times before she caught his attention. “Very well,” he added, having grasped the question. “As I said to Captain Hornblower, it was quite a novelty to sleep in a feather bed.”  
Hornblower looked up momentarily at the sound of his own name, but not long enough for Pellew to catch his eye.  
“A pleasant novelty, I take it?” said Mrs King.  
“Very pleasant.” Pellew looked at Hornblower as he spoke. “I trust you also slept well, captain?”  
“Yes sir,” said Hornblower, without lifting his eyes from his coffee cup. His tone was so plain and formal that Pellew did not know what to make of his answer.  
“May I offer you more coffee, captain?” said Mrs King.  
“No thank you, ma’am,” Hornblower replied. He looked up when he spoke but did not quite look at her: his eyes were unfocussed and opaque. Pellew looked away; he could not bear to see Horatio’s eyes veiled in that way and think he was to blame. But soon Hornblower was on his feet. “In fact,” he said, speaking to Mrs King and then to Pellew, “if I may be excused, I must return—”  
“Captain—” Pellew interrupted, then fell silent, for he could think of no pressing reason why Hornblower should stay and every reason why he would want to return to his ship.

“There are the marines to disembark,” Hornblower explained, “and supplies to go aboard.”  
“Yes, of course.” Pellew tried not to frown. There were supplies and  
marines and no doubt a dozen other matters requiring attention that morning, and he knew a fine officer like Captain Hornblower would not let anything interfere with his duties. But Pellew wondered whether duty was a welcome excuse; whether Hornblower would have been so keen to leave were it not for what they had done the night before. Pellew wished he would stay—wished he would want to stay, at least until they had a chance to talk—but he knew all his wishing was quite pointless. “Of course,” he repeated, for his own benefit, his voice catching on the words.  
“Oh yes, do not let me detain you!” said Mrs King, cheerfully oblivious to all that was unsaid between her guests.  
“Thank you sir,” said Hornblower, “and thank you for your hospitality, ma’am.” Bowing slightly, he made to leave the room.  
“Hornblower—”  
He almost seemed to expect to be stopped. “Yes sir?”  
“I…” Pellew hesitated; he did not wish to press Horatio and he knew he would treat as an order anything he said in front of Mrs King, but the breakfast table was no place to talk and he was as reluctant to let Hornblower slip away as to let a Frenchman sail under his nose. “Report here at four o’clock,” he said eventually, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking like a commander-in-chief when his mind was somewhere else entirely. “Before the pleasantries.”  
“Aye sir,” said Hornblower. He too was perfectly in character, until he met Pellew’s eyes for the first time that morning and looked at him like no ordinary captain would look at his admiral. It was impossible to say what that look meant. Then he was gone, leaving Pellew to wonder what the afternoon would bring.

Pellew was standing on the shady porch that ran the length of Government House when he saw Hornblower making his way up the hill from the wharf. Pellew met him at the front steps.  
“Good afternoon, captain,” he said cheerfully, hoping Hornblower would reply in kind.  
“Good afternoon sir.”  
Pellew smiled; this time Hornblower did not fail to meet his eyes. “I am indebted to you, sir.”  
“Sir?”  
“Yes—you have provided me with a means of escape.”  
Now Hornblower smiled too; Pellew was very glad to see it. “From your meeting?”  
“From a meeting—though it was hard to tell where one ended and  
another began.”

“Productive, I hope sir?”  
“Not entirely unproductive.” Pellew folded his hands behind his back and began to stroll the length of the porch. Hornblower followed, keeping companionably close, but not so close as to arouse the curiosity of the two marines stationed by the front door or anyone who might be watching through the drawing room windows. This meeting felt more natural than when they met at breakfast, but not unconstrained. Pellew still did not feel he could say the things he wanted to say, and it was not merely the guards’ presence that prevented him. “I have spoken with Master Robertson,” he said, as they reached the far end of the porch and turned back again. “He can tell us nothing beyond what we already know: the convoy was all strung-out when the Hare was lost.  
The other ships hove-to but they could find no trace of her and nearly lost each  
other in the process.” Pellew shook his head slowly. “I think he was trying to tell me—in the most courteous of terms—that if he were able to say where he lost her, he would not have lost her in the first place.”  
Hornblower smiled faintly. “High winds and rough seas, then.”  
Pellew nodded. “And, I think it’s fair to say, not the best of seamanship.  
But that is where we stand, short of scouring the entire lee shore from Port Phillip to Pigeon House Mountain… and I fancy we’d find nothing more than an ordinary shipwreck if we did: regrettable, of course, but hardly remarkable— despite all the intrigue.”  
“I would be surprised if that were not the case,” said Hornblower.  
“We’re in agreement, then. Indeed, were it not for the coincidence, I would incline to dismiss the other possibility altogether.”  
“The coincidence?”  
“Van Diemen’s Land,” said Pellew. “That was the place touted for French settlement, was it not?”  
“The D’Entrecasteaux Channel,” said Hornblower. That was the place Péron had spoken of, and the site of Hobart Town, settled by Lieutenant- Governor Collins a year earlier.  
“Mm. Perhaps ‘Storm Bay Passage’ would be more appropriate, Hornblower.” The French had been first to name the channel, but Pellew was not prepared to concede even that claim on British territory. “Call it what you will, if the French do have designs on this place, the south-east coast of Van Diemen’s land is one place we might expect to find them. I saw the map this morning, marked by Péron’s own hand.”  
“But that was years ago. With three British settlements on the island, we may presume there has been a change of plan.”  
As Governor King had explained in his letters to the Admiralty and at dinner the night before, he had settled Van Diemen’s Land for the very purpose of ensuring Bonaparte did not do so first. Pellew did not need to be reminded of that. “But you assume the French are aware of those settlements,” he said.  
“And you assume they are not.”

Pellew studied Hornblower for a moment. He seemed agitated—almost impertinent—and Pellew suspected that it was not the tactical situation that was troubling him. He stopped, twenty yards from the two guards, and looked Hornblower in the eye. “I assume nothing,” he said quietly; then, more quietly still, “I agree with you, Horatio, but—in hindsight—I do wish we had put in at Hobart. It might have been a waste of time, but there are two hundred men on that island and I think we must assure ourselves of their situation.”  
“Of course,” Hornblower said humbly; he knew any other admiral might well have stamped his foot and damned his impudence for speaking in that way.  
“I don’t know if you’ll approve, but the governor and I agreed to send a ship next week—”  
“—Sir, I did not mean to suggest we should not investigate.” “Horatio, I know.”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“Horatio, I…” Pellew sighed. He felt no more free to speak his mind there on the porch with guards about than at the breakfast table with Mrs King, yet to meet again and speak of nothing but business was like forgetting they were lovers as well as officers; like forgetting what they had done the night before. Pellew had not forgotten—he had thought of Hornblower continually through his meetings with Robertson and King and the colonial officers, and counted the hours until four o’clock—but he was waiting for the right moment to acknowledge it. In a way, the previous night had been as much of a shock for him as for Hornblower, and he still did not understand how he had allowed it to happen. He had begun the night concerned that he was hurting Horatio; had he ended it by doing just that? Horatio had put him in a position where the only way he could show his respect was to do the thing that seemed the least respectful; the thing which they had both agreed they would never do. It was a beautiful piece of sophistry, Pellew thought, marvelling even then at the brilliant young man standing before him. And it was beautiful, if he stopped thinking and let himself feel—but he could not do that without wondering how Horatio felt.  
He could not wait any longer. “Are you well?” he asked.  
His words took Hornblower by surprise, for they were still standing on the porch with the guards not far away and a gardener at work trimming the front lawn. “Yes,” he said quietly. He was tired and every time he sat down or climbed the companion stairs reminded him that he was a little sore, but he had expected no less and he saw no need to confess it; he would have been ashamed to complain of anything so trifling when the rigours of shipboard life regularly left most of the crew more tired and more sore, albeit not in the same places. He wished Edward would not ask.  
Pellew nodded slightly. He knew he could not expect Hornblower to tell the whole truth—they were both used to wearing their wounds beneath their uniforms—but he accepted his answer as meaning that he need not worry. “And… you did sleep well?”

“As I said at breakfast,” Hornblower replied. He held his chin high, thinking how ridiculous it was for men who regularly killed in the course of their duty to make a fuss over a little bruising. But that was not what was troubling him. Offering himself to Edward had meant casting off the shroud of sin and shame with which he surrounded himself and his body. He did not believe in any god but there were too many vulgar words and vile jokes, too many taboos in law and dogma, for that intimacy to come easily. It had taken a long time, nearly seven years; he had expected heaven for his sin and he supposed he was disappointed. Long hours alone left him wondering if he had been wrong to let Edward inside him: it was an act of love which ought to have brought them closer together, yet they had spent the day apart, unable to talk or touch each other. So he searched Edward’s eyes, looking for some reminder that what they had done was right.  
Pellew understood better than he could say. “Horatio…” He let his fingertips brush Hornblower’s wrist, because he could not hold him. “I can’t say—”

you.”

Hornblower seized his hand and held it long enough to mumble, “I love

“I love you,” Pellew echoed. Hornblower had just said the words he

thought he could not say, and left him wondering why he had not said them first.  
Somewhere, birds came to life with their evening calls and the gardener gathered up his tools. Hornblower shifted self-consciously, but the lingering look in his liquid eyes showed that he had heard what he needed to hear. His discomfort now was of a different kind, more commonplace: the guards to one side and figures moving on the shore. He watched a boat row out from the three warships. “That might be the other captains,” he said.  
Pellew barely heard him. “You know, this morning, I almost chased you down to the wharf.” That drew a look from Hornblower, but Pellew went on before he could reply, “I wanted to speak to you. I wish we could have been alone together,” he added, certain the guards would not hear. “I wish we could have woken up together.”  
Hornblower swallowed visibly. “We can’t talk like this now.” “No.” Pellew cleared his throat; it was his turn to be embarrassed.  
Hornblower looked at the guards, then at Edward, and held his eyes for a moment before saying, “So do I.”  
They were still on the porch, watching each other quietly in the hazy afternoon light, when they saw two figures coming up the garden path. It was Walton and Preece from Hotspur, in full dress uniform.  
“Good evening sir,” said Walton, saluting as he mounted the front steps and smiling broadly. “And Captain Hornblower—it is a pleasure to see you again.

“Good evening captain, Mr Preece,” said Pellew, stepping flawlessly into his public role; by his side, Hornblower nodded. “Welcome ashore. We will join you shortly.”  
“Aye sir.” The pair disappeared through the front door. Hornblower drew his watch from his pocket. “We’d best go inside.”  
“In a moment.” Pellew’s gaze lingered on Horatio; he was still not quite sure what to make of this young man who could be so brash one moment, so bashful the next.  
“Do I look all right?” Hornblower asked. He had put on his best jacket for the occasion, but there was a moth hole on the right shoulder and, though the admiral’s steward had done a very neat job with the darning needle, he felt his epaulette drew attention to it.  
Pellew almost laughed. “You look… very much so.” He did not want to say anything too salacious while Horatio was ill at ease, but he thought a compliment would not go astray. “Why ever do you ask?”  
“I have a darning.” He pointed to the place.  
“Hornblower, if you had seen the rags and patches Master Robertson was wearing this morning, you would not even think of it.” Pellew leaned in a little. “Besides which, you’re better dressed in just your drawers than other men in all China’s silk.”  
Hornblower smiled; the flirtation was a tonic to both of them.  
“But you have reminded me,” Pellew went on. “I can hardly wear this!” He flapped a flounced sleeve cuff that bore the stains of last night’s pudding. “I sent for Merrick and my chest; I must go and hurry him up about a fresh shirt.”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“I imagine you’ll find Captain Walton in the drawing room; the others will be along shortly. Could you make my apologies, while I dress?” Pellew lowered his voice, since they were almost at the door. “We’ll talk later.”

At dinner, Hornblower sat between Walton and Lieutenant Symons, one of many colonial officers he had been introduced to that evening. Around the table were Major Johnston of the New South Wales Corps; Sergeant Whalan, the governor’s aide-de-camp; James Meehan, the Deputy-General Surveyor; Surgeon Harris, and a half-dozen others: every man King could assemble at short notice to welcome Pellew and his officers.  
Symons was captain of the Lady Nelson, the tiny government brig nick-  
named ‘His Majesty’s Tinderbox’, lately returned from Norfolk Island. “And next week we sail for Van Diemen’s Land,” he told Hornblower. “We’re to look in on Collins in Hobart and Colonel Paterson.”  
“I see.” Pellew had not said which ship he was sending to Hobart; Hornblower was glad to hear it would not be Hyacinth or either of the sloops. All three ships needed to be repaired and reprovisioned, and the men needed to

rest—especially those who had been moved to the government hospital that morning.  
“We were down there last in the summer, on the river at Port Dalrymple,” Symons went on. “We left Colonel Paterson there with the colonists, and I can tell you there was no sign of the French then, sir! Just a few native bands and a lot of bad weather.”  
“I hope that is still the case, sir.” Since he did not know exactly what Pellew and King had told Symons, Hornblower thought it best not to elaborate. He looked around the lively table. Every man present knew by now that Pellew had been sent to protect the colony against the French, but no-one seemed overly concerned. In fact, from the snatches of conversation he had overheard, it seemed the locals were more interested in news from England than the affairs of their own home: the Surgeon-General was enquiring after the health of King George while two officers from the New South Wales Corps were asking Bush about the likely course of the war. Hornblower smiled when he caught Bush’s eye, then continued his sweep around the table. At the far end were Pellew and King, flanked by Pownoll and the governor’s wife. He and Edward had not spoken since they sat down to dinner, Hornblower realised as he watched him holding court over a glass of ruby port, but he had hardly noticed: he had been continuously engaged by Walton, Symons and young Selwyn, who seemed to regard him as some sort of celebrity.  
“How are you getting along with that Virgil, captain?” Walton asked, when he noticed that Symons was talking to someone else, leaving Hornblower free for the moment.  
Hornblower smiled; the colonial officers were pleasant enough, but in truth he preferred talking to Walton. “Finished, in fact, but I did not think to bring the book.”  
“Oh, never mind about that,” said Walton. “I’d say keep it, were it not for my father’s inscription.”  
“I saw it,” said Hornblower. He hesitated momentarily before adding, “Is your father—”  
“Oh yes, he’s alive,” said Walton, “but he’d think it some sort of blasphemy.” As he spoke, an unostentatiously dressed footman cleared away his plate, then Hornblower’s. “Is yours? Your father, I mean?” Walton asked so casually that the personal question did not irritate Hornblower as it ordinarily might have.  
“No, not these ten years.” “I see,” said Walton.  
He neither apologised nor enquired further. Hornblower was glad of that, as he was glad to have Walton for a companion: he was intelligent, talkative and well-mannered, though not to the point of stiltedness. Indeed, Hornblower had fixed on the idea that he might call Walton a friend. There had been few men in his life with whom he had shared any true friendly attachment: Archie and

Edward of course, Mr Bush and poor Mr Bracegirdle; fewer still with whom he had felt the kind of immediate affinity he felt with Walton. It was pleasing to think that he might have found a new friend, since the war had relieved him of two and the four-month journey seemed to have weakened his friendship with Bush. He and Edward were deeply in love, but they could not spend every moment together; in fact, a few hours in other company had helped to put the previous night in perspective. It had not changed anything between them but it had left Hornblower a little unsettled, so it was reassuring to chat with Walton, as he normally would, knowing that Edward was just at the other end of the table.  
“I confess I’ve not finished your Gibbon,” said Walton.  
“He is something of an undertaking,” Hornblower replied, “but well worth the effort—not only the history but the way he writes it.”  
“I’ll take your word for it, sir.” Walton sipped his wine. “After all, I’ll have plenty of time.”

Meats and puddings disappeared; decanters of wine were drained. It was a lavish spread, or seemed that way to the newly-arrived officers, who all ate more than their fill: Hornblower watched in mild amazement as Walton polished off a pint of treacle pudding and an equal quantity of jelly, having already sampled every savoury dish on the table. Then, as the servants cleared away the meal, the guests rose to circulate and stretch their legs before port and cigars were brought.  
Hornblower followed Walton to the fireside, overlooked by portraits of Queen Charlotte and King George.  
“It feels like Lilliput, don’t you think, captain?” Walton cast his eyes around the modest room. “I’ve seen Government House on Minorca and Gibraltar—or have I simply had too much pudding?”  
Hornblower smiled. “What was it, barrels of bread?”  
“Barrels of beer, I think—but there’s no shame in knowing your Virgil better than your Swift!”  
Walton ran on cheerfully, as happy as Hornblower to spend the evening talking together rather than meeting the other officers. But he was soon assailed by a rather dreary sergeant from the same part of Surrey, who proceeded to narrate his journey out on the transport Tellicherry too turgidly even for Walton to get a word in. At that point Hornblower excused himself and went to join the group still seated at the head of the table.  
Pownoll had wandered off with Major Johnston, but the governor was there, rosy with meat and wine, while Pellew made Mrs King titter with his quick wit and dark eyes. Clearly she had enjoyed more than a little wine as well.  
“And here is one of them!” she said as Hornblower approached. “Sir Edward, when you introduced us to Captain Hornblower last night, you did not tell us that you had brought not one but three dark, handsome young captains.”  
“He did tell you he had brought his son,” said the governor.

Pellew laughed self-consciously. “Three talented young captains to be sure.” He glanced sidelong at Hornblower, who immediately looked at his feet.  
“Time for the ladies to withdraw, I think,” King advised his wife, laying a hand on her arm.  
Mrs King laughed. “I wonder if the other gentlemen wish our young guests would withdraw—that is, sir, they must despair of winning their sweethearts with these three in town!”  
Hornblower continued to stare at the floor. She meant well, but he was uncomfortable with the governor’s wife complimenting them all so openly— Edward included—though her husband did not seem to mind.  
The lady noticed his blush. “I hope I’ve not embarrassed you, captain.” “No, no,” the governor interrupted, waving one hand, “you must not be  
embarrassed, Captain Hornblower! For it is not you she shames but her husband, by comparison.”  
He spoke in jest; nonetheless his wife was quick to reassure him with a loving look. “Come now, Captain King—you know how easily you wooed me with your dashing exploits! But one must be courteous to one’s guests.” Her gaze settled on Pellew. Anna King was a woman beyond reproach but Hornblower knew he was not alone in finding Edward attractive and, in this case, he suspected the compliment ran deeper than courtesy.  
“Thank you, madam,” Pellew said quietly. Hornblower could tell he was embarrassed too, if flattered. They were both relieved when Mrs King removed to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.  
“Sit down, captain,” said Pellew, indicating the empty chair. “Thank you.” Hornblower sat quietly. He had come to join the  
conversation but found he had lost his tongue.  
King smiled on him kindly. “You mustn’t mind my wife, captain. With our eldest not yet fifteen, she takes a great interest in everyone else’s children— but I cannot fault her for it. She has done some saintly work for the orphans here.”  
Hornblower nodded; Mrs King had already told him about the girl’s orphanage which she had set up.  
“And you must understand that it is very exciting for us all, having such esteemed visitors.” King glanced at Pellew, resplendent in his full dress uniform with the red sash and the glittering star that His Majesty had given him. That uniform, with all its buttons and bullion, would have cost several months of a captain’s pay. There was nothing like it in the colony; the governor himself was only a post-captain. Hornblower supposed it was quite understandable that Mrs King—who did her own mending and guarded the key to the tea caddy more closely than the silver—should be dazzled even by Pellew’s humble fleet. “But what were you going to say, captain,” said the governor, “before my wife made a mess of us all?”  
“I confess I’ve forgotten, sir,” said Hornblower.

Pellew was smiling too. “Well, this might help.” He reached for the decanter of port which a servant had brought. “If I may?” He looked to the governor.  
“Please,” said King.  
Pellew poured three glasses. “I saw you talking with Mr Symons,” he added, passing one to the governor and one to Hornblower. “I’m sending him to Van Diemen’s Land, as soon as he can be ready to sail.”  
“So he told me, sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Well, Hotspur’s hardly in a state to brave Bass’ Strait, and I have other plans for you.” Pellew’s eyes invited Hornblower to enquire further.  
“Plans, sir?”  
The admiral nodded. “As I said last night, our first priority is to fortify the harbour entrance—and, given your skill in destroying our enemies’ defences, I couldn’t think of a better man than yourself to design ours.”  
“I see,” Hornblower replied, rather unenthusiastically. Edward might as well have told him that he would be spending the next few weeks digging a ditch.  
“The first step will be to find appropriate sites, on the north head and the south—but why spoil fine port with such talk? We’ll discuss all this tomorrow. In the mean time, though, you might introduce yourself to Mr Meehan—if you’ve not already done so.” Pellew glanced at the Deputy-General Surveyor, who was standing by the opposite window with Selwyn and Keogh. “I expect you’ll have something to do with each other over the next few weeks.”  
“Yes, sir,” said Hornblower, wondering if he should have stayed with Walton after all.

It was eleven o’clock. Most of the guests had already departed and Walton was preparing to leave as well.  
“Will you come, captain?” he called, yawning. “Pardon me!”  
Hornblower smiled at him across the room. “Yes,” he said, and excused himself from the last dregs of conversation with James Meehan. But Pellew, who had scarcely moved all evening from his place at head of the table, rose now to catch him before he could reach the door.  
“Are you returning to your ship, captain?”  
“I had planned to,” Hornblower said quietly, conscious of so many eyes potentially upon them. “I’ll follow in a moment,” he told Walton, louder, and Walton left with a nod. “Are you staying here?” he asked, though he could guess the answer.  
“Yes,” said Pellew. “It’s easier this way. The governor is here; his staff are

here.”

Hornblower nodded.  
“You know you are welcome to stay.”

“For God’s sake not here!” Hornblower whispered. He glanced left and right, to be sure no-one was listening. “I think I should go. The others are waiting.”  
“Not avoiding me, I hope?” Pellew’s manner was flippant but his meaning frank: their conversation on the porch had left him more convinced than ever of the merits of speaking one’s mind.  
“No.” Hornblower looked him in the eye. “Of course not.” “Then… will you come tomorrow?”  
“Yes.” Hornblower held Edward’s eyes, wanting to touch him and knowing he could not. The governor was still at the table, with Whalan and Harris; Meehan and Johnston had not yet gone. “Mr Meehan said he’ll have some charts for me.”  
“Then come afterwards.” He lowered his voice so it was almost inaudible. “I want to see you.”  
Hornblower nodded again. “Good night.” “Good night, captain.”  
“I see the admiral’s keeping you busy,” Walton greeted Hornblower when he joined the other officers by the wharf. A boat was waiting to take them back to their ships.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower; fortunately night disguised his flushed cheeks. “What does he have in store for you?” Walton asked as they climbed  
aboard.  
Hornblower took a moment to remember, for his head was full of Edward. “Inspecting potential sites for the new batteries.”  
Walton raised his eyebrows. “An engineer, then.” He laughed. “Well, I’m to be a carpenter—in search of a new mast for Hotspur.”  
Walton’s orders were even less interesting than his, Hornblower noted. “I expect you’ll have ample time for Gibbon, then.”  
“Indeed, sir,” said Walton. He had to shout over the slap of oars.  
“Of course, if you prefer, I would be glad to have you aboard Hyacinth.” Hornblower smiled. “I trust you play Whist, captain?”  
“With pleasure, sir.”  
“Hornblower, please.” He extended his hand; it was dark but he could see that Walton was flattered.  
“Tom Walton,” he replied, and they shook hands.  
Walton’s handshake was just like his character: warm, friendly and relaxed. Yes, Hornblower thought, he had made a friend.

Hornblower returned to Government House the following afternoon with the charts from the Surveyor’s Department. He found Pellew at the bureau in the drawing room, which he had taken over for his paper work.  
“Ah, captain!” Pellew rose. He had been writing up the fair copy of his log but gladly abandoned it the moment he saw Hornblower, without even stopping

to blot. “What did Mr Meehan have for you?” he asked, spying the bundle of charts under Hornblower’s arm.  
“The Heads,” said Hornblower, handing them over, “and some plans of the George’s Head battery. He suggested we look for a site on the seaward side, since the existing battery commands the inner heads.”  
Pellew nodded. “That’s what I had in mind.” He unrolled the charts on the card table and found the survey of South Head. Hornblower watched over his shoulder. The most promising spot was where the cliffs came to a point half a mile south-east of the harbour entrance. “I would suggest you start here,” said Pellew, indicating the place. “As I recall, the elevation was good—but I leave the decision to you.”  
Hornblower nodded, then added, “Meehan did ask why we are building new batteries.”  
Pellew looked up sharply. “I should think it’s obvious.”  
“It was his opinion that the existing battery gives adequate protection. The four guns there sweep from here to here.” Hornblower traced an arc on the chart from Middle Harbour to Camp Cove.  
“Perhaps, but those guns are nearly two miles from North Head; at that range they’re not accurate enough to offer proper protection.” Pellew tapped the chart. “There’s no crossfire, and they offer no protection at all outside the heads.” He re-rolled the charts. “If you remember, we couldn’t see the battery until we were practically in the harbour.”  
“I am simply repeating Mr Meehan’s remarks,” Hornblower said patiently.  
The last thing he wanted was to squabble about the batteries as they had nearly squabbled about Van Diemen’s Land.  
“Well, I’m sure you appreciate the deficiencies of the existing defences.”  
“Yes—but I also appreciate that it took more than three years to complete the battery on George’s Head.”  
“What?” Pellew’s brow arched steeply. “How could it possibly take three

years?”

“I don’t know. I heard there were men were punished for idleness.”  
“I should hope so,” said Pellew. “But we are not going to take three years,

are we, Hornblower?” “No sir.”  
Pellew folded his hands behind his back and walked to the window. For a minute he stood looking at the harbour and his three ships. “But that’s not why you came here, is it?”  
“Sir?”  
Pellew turned. “To blether on about the batteries—and what is this ‘sir’ business?”  
Hornblower almost smiled. “I apologise.”  
“Good.” Pellew’s stern look gave way to a smile. “Good afternoon, Horatio.” He saw Hornblower glance at the door and added, “It’s all right: the

governor is out and, so far as Mrs King is concerned, I’m attending to some very important business.” He ran one eye over Hornblower. “Yes.”  
Hornblower blinked.  
“Is it pleasant out?” said Pellew. “Sorry?”  
“Out! Outside, in the sunshine!” Pellew shook his head; Horatio could be so serious sometimes. “Well, I don’t want to sit here all day—shall we see some of the town?”  
“Yes.” Hornblower smiled. “Though I don’t think there’s much to see.” “Then we have no excuse, have we?”  
Soon they were outside, in the gardens of Government House. Pellew had never been beyond the wharf, so Hornblower took him past the guard house, across the bridge and onto High Street, which they followed around the eastern side of Sydney Cove. They were accompanied by two soldiers, whom King had insisted Pellew take as a bodyguard if leaving the grounds, but they knew their duty and maintained a discreet distance. Hornblower and Pellew could talk freely and wander as they pleased. They did not talk about anything in particular; they did not talk about the last night they had spent together, but that was not why they had wanted to see each other: they simply wanted to be with each other.  
They were quite content walking side by side in the sun and the fresh air, not necessarily saying anything, but knowing that the other was there, enjoying the kind of uncomplicated companionship that Hornblower had wanted the day before; that could not be found in a crowded room.  
They walked past the simple little whitewashed buildings Hornblower had noticed the night they arrived: the gaol and the hospital; offices and storehouses. Above them, on the rise behind the town, were Fort Phillip and the two windmills, turning slowly in the gentle breeze; below them, the sparkling turquoise sea. They passed the public wharf, where a boat was unloading cargo from the merchant ships moored across the cove. Beside the wharf was the naval dockyard, with its slips and blocks and stores of timber seasoning in the sun.  
They did not go unnoticed: soon Selwyn came to meet them. “Good afternoon, sir—sir,” he greeted Pellew, then Hornblower, or perhaps he was still so nervous in Pellew’s presence that he stuttered. At least someone had enlightened him as to the form of address customary for an admiral and baronet: he no longer said ‘my lord’.  
“Good afternoon,” said Hornblower, making sure to smile. “Mr Selwyn,” Pellew nodded.  
“How can I help you, sir?” Selwyn asked, unsure whom to address himself to. “I confess we were not expecting you, sir.” He looked from Hornblower to Pellew, then back to Hornblower.  
“Nor should you have been,” Hornblower said pleasantly. “We’re simply out to see the town.”

“Oh!” Selwyn seemed relieved; no doubt their unexpected arrival had thrown him into a panic that he had forgotten some order or other. “Then, sir, perhaps you will permit me to show you about.”  
Hornblower glanced at Pellew. He had hoped they might spend the afternoon alone, so far as possible with a bodyguard; the addition of the Acting Harbour Master would transform a casual stroll into a diplomatic event. “You might show us the dockyard, Mr Selwyn,” he said, when Pellew failed to answer. “If your duties permit, of course,” he added, half-hoping that the young man would remember some more pressing task he had to attend to. Hornblower suspected that the shy Selwyn would be as glad to get away as he and Edward to be alone.  
“Of course,” Selwyn replied. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”  
Hornblower and Pellew exchanged a glance and followed him into the dockyard.  
“I’m afraid there’s not much to see, sir,” Selwyn explained as they moved between makeshift workshops, piles of timber, and several small craft being built or repaired. “That, I think, is the finest view in the colony!” He stopped beside the office, overlooking Sydney Cove, where Hyacinth and the two sloops swung to their anchors on the still-retreating tide. “Sir,” he added hastily.  
Hornblower smiled faintly. Hyacinth did look very fine, he thought, with her swift sleek lines and the blue and gold paintwork that made her the spitting image of Indefatigable. She would have looked grander still under sail, Hornblower mused, regretting momentarily that he never had the opportunity to see his own ship as others saw her, with all her sail set. Hotspur, however, did not look so handsome: her mizzen mast was two-thirds the height it ought to have been, and the rake was uneven, having been rigged at sea.  
“I spoke to Captain Walton this morning, sir,” Selwyn volunteered. The young man had a keen eye; evidently his gaze had followed Hornblower’s to the jury-rigged sloop. “About a new mast for Hotspur—should be fitted in no time, sir.” Selwyn’s gaze flitted between captain and admiral as he spoke.  
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Hornblower. Pellew nodded.  
Selwyn finished showing them around the dockyard: a new skiff framed up in the slip, half a dozen men re-caulking a cutter and, last of all, what looked like an old whaling boat, propped up against a wall. The vessel was scuffed and hardly seaworthy, yet Selwyn saw fit to stop and draw his guests’ attention. “Surgeon Bass’s whaleboat,” he explained. “Twenty-eight foot seven inches she is, sir, but in this boat he discovered Western Port.”  
Hornblower nodded. Western Port was the smaller harbour adjacent to Port Phillip, unsettled and barely explored, yet Selwyn spoke of Bass’ achievement as other men spoke of Nelson’s or Cochrane’s. Hornblower was moved to look twice at the unprepossessing little vessel, thinking that he would not wish to brave the treacherous strait that had almost wrecked Hotspur in a twenty-eight-foot boat.

“Still, I’d choose a whaleboat over Tom Thumb,” he told Pellew later, when they had parted company with Selwyn to continue their stroll around Sydney Cove.  
Pellew raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I thought you were rather fond of Tom Thumb.”  
Hornblower replied with a puzzled look. “Am I?”  
“Mm.” Pellew held out his hand and contemplated his own thumb. “Yes.” “Oh.” Hornblower blushed as he realised that Pellew was not referring to  
the eight-foot boat in which Bass and Flinders had explored the New South Wales coast. He was referring to a particularly debauched evening when he and Edward had explored each other. “Yes,” he said coyly and hastened on. “Where are we?” he wondered aloud, hoping to change the course of the conversation and of Edward’s eyes, which he could almost feel upon him. He was not squeamish— he had come ashore with every intention of staying the night—but he was mindful of the two guards twenty paces behind.  
“Nowhere we want to be,” Pellew replied. They had passed the surveyors’ office, where Hornblower had been that morning, and found themselves in a stone quarry; farther along the point was Dawes’ battery which, with its counterpart on the opposite point, protected Sydney Cove. “Let’s turn back,” he said, and led the way.  
They explored for another hour, working back through the more salubrious parts of the town: past the offices of the Surveyor and the Surgeon- General, back by the public wharf and the High Street stores with their armed sentries, and across the parade ground to the church, where they stopped for a while in the dusty sun. To the west, the nearer windmill still turned, its stippled shadow slowly crossing the churchyard as the hour grew later. To the south, they could see the barracks and the military hospital on Church Street, where eight men from Pellew’s ships were presently being cared for. Just eight men out eight hundred on a voyage of such length was something to be thankful for—“and most of those expected to live,” said Pellew; he had met with the Surgeon- General that morning.  
The buildings they had seen were like children’s drawings, Hornblower thought: square façades with square windows, pitched rooves and chimneys; some with simple yards, some with dusty paths, all clustered round the foreshore. Further south, stone buildings gave way to rougher structures: soldiers’ accommodation, private holdings and other places not fit for an admiral to visit. Hornblower and Pellew did not go there; instead, they continued east, past the lumber yard and the granary, and across the Tank Stream bridge. The road they were on led to Government House: Hornblower could see the blue-grey roof above the leafy orchard, and thought it would not have looked out of place in a little English village. Beyond the gardens, however, Sydney stopped abruptly in a handful of humble farm-plots. Hornblower stopped too, and looked at his

companion. On their present course, they would soon be back at Government House, having explored the whole eastern part of the town.  
“Shall we drop anchor,” said Pellew, “or is there more you wish to see?” Hornblower smiled faintly. “Is there more?”  
“I believe there’s a burial ground a mile or so south—and, of course, such scintillating sights as the prison and the powder magazine.”  
Hornblower rolled his eyes.  
“Well, what do you think?” Pellew asked. “You must be thinking something, for you’ve said nothing since we passed the church. Could you live in a place like this?”  
Hornblower looked around himself, at the thin veneer of civilisation that soon gave way to green hills and rocky bays, but he did not resent Sydney’s humbleness. Instead he saw the beauty of the scene; of walking with Edward in the afternoon sun. “I think so,” he said, “if I had something to do.” It was not, after all, a small town, except when compared to the vast continent around it.  
Sydney itself was bigger than the village Hornblower had grown up in; bigger than the wooden world he now occupied—and yet that world was unlimited. The war might take him anywhere across seven seas; he might fight French, Spanish, Dutch and all their allies in every continent. Here there were only British prisoners and a battery to be built on South Head. That was what made Sydney small—but, so long as he had something to occupy him, he would tolerate it as well as his tiny cabin on Hyacinth. And of course he had Edward: Edward was the reason he had come to New South Wales; Edward had occupied his thoughts since they passed the church. “If you were here,” he whispered. There had been a time when he would have wondered how two people could spend four months together without tiring of each other, but that was before he fell in love. Now he only wondered if he and Edward would spend the night together.  
Pellew was flattered but a little flustered. “Be careful, Horatio! I fear you’re just the sort of man the Home Office would like to put in a place like this—if they ever relieve Captain King.”  
Hornblower frowned. “I’m not an administrator.” Inexperience was not his real objection, however: like Edward, he wanted to be thought of as a fighting man, not a public servant.  
But Pellew spoke lightly. “Be that as it may, I don’t think you’d take three years about building a four-gun battery!”  
“No,” said Hornblower.  
“Well, shall we fetch those charts?” “Charts?”  
“Of the Heads,” said Pellew. “Are you—you are going back to the ship?”  
Hornblower blinked. “I had hoped…” he began, but he stopped when he realised Edward had other plans.  
“Oh.” Pellew swallowed uncomfortably. “Why, of course, but…” His shoulders dropped. “I asked Pownoll to stay at Government House.”

“I see.”  
“But do come… do stay, at least—”  
“—I think I’d better not,” said Hornblower. Edward was thinking with his heart but he was thinking with his head: he knew they could not be together if Pownoll was there, and he was in a mood to make love with Edward, not strained conversation with Edward’s son.  
“I’m sorry.” Pellew looked forlorn. “But I’ve hardly seen him, you know, and he knows, and—”  
“It’s all right.” “I’m sorry.”  
“I understand,” said Hornblower. He was disappointed, but he knew it was not Edward’s fault, or Pownoll’s, and he knew they could be together the next night, or the next night, or the next. He had been spoiled, he supposed: never before had he been able to spend so much time with Edward as he had in the past four months, while Edward had scarcely set eyes on his own son. It was their turn.  
“Another time,” Pellew promised. “Soon.”  
“There will be plenty of time.” Hornblower smiled. “‘Until further orders’, as you say.”  
“There will indeed,” said Pellew, thinking that did not sound like such a bad thing after all.  
A cart rattled past on High Street and a boat left the public wharf, but neither man noticed. They were rapt in each other’s eyes.  
“What are you going to do now?” Pellew asked.  
“I suppose I’ll pass the evening with Mr Meehan’s charts.” Pellew laughed. “Now don’t make me jealous, Horatio!” They walked slowly back to Government House.

Three days later, Hornblower found himself standing atop South Head, where a work gang was clearing scrubby brush and shallow earth under the watchful eyes of two armed soldiers and their convict supervisor. They had made a similar scraping at a chain’s distance, where James Meehan, the Deputy General Surveyor, and William Minchin, Artillery Officer with the New South Wales Corps, were inspecting the exposed bedrock and making notes on their slates.  
This would be the site for the southern battery. Meehan was responsible for surveying the site, Minchin for the actual construction, but Hornblower, having been put in charge of the project, had decided to inspect it himself. His presence was hardly necessary: he had no engineering expertise or surveying skills to contribute and, between the formidable supervisors and the soldiers’ muskets, he could be sure the transports would cause no trouble. Still, standing by on South Head was better than standing idly on Hyacinth’s poop deck, at anchor in Sydney Cove.

Hornblower watched the team at work: a dozen unkempt men, labouring ceaselessly but spiritlessly, with the constant lashings of a supervisor’s tongue to remind them of the lashings they would suffer if they were lax in their work.  
Hornblower wondered how those men had found themselves digging in prickly scrub to build the battery that would defend their prison: they might be felons, renegades, arsonists; or they might have done no more than Bush’s townsman who stole a pair of boots. Some of them were political prisoners: Meehan had told him that he was a transport himself, sentenced to seven years for swearing his allegiance to United Ireland rather than His Majesty. Meehan was fortunate that, as a surveyor, he had a skill much sought-after in the colony: King had quickly taken him into government service. The other men were not so fortunate, Hornblower thought as he watched them sweating over their shovels.  
At last he heard the metallic scrape that told they had struck rock.  
“Get out of the way! Out!” Minchin shouted, shooing the work team from the site. He proceeded to poke and prod until he finally pronounced, “Good solid bedrock, sir.”  
“Very good,” said Hornblower.  
“We’ll build a nice little fort, sir,” Minchin added.  
Hornblower nodded stiffly; Minchin’s affability unsettled him because he knew it was assumed solely for his benefit. Minchin was rather coarse and, according to Governor King, one of the most troublesome characters in the New South Wales Corps. He smiled at Hornblower, but when he turned back to the convict team, his manner changed completely. “Don’t think you can go easy now, or we’ll have you diggin’ this rock next!”  
They would have to cut into the sandstone eventually, Hornblower thought, but to harass the men—men who had, after all, done everything that was asked of them—seemed unnecessarily harsh. The convicts, however, did not so much as raise their heads as they shuffled back to the excavation site. That seemed to frustrate Minchin more, for he spat on the ground and slapped his iron rule into his palm as though he meant to use it on the men’s backs.  
Hornblower caught his eye and half wished he hadn’t: he hated to see men mistreated but neither did he wish to bring Minchin’s wrath upon himself. He had almost done just that when he asked, as tactfully as possible, whether the new batteries could be completed more quickly than Fort Phillip and George’s Head. Minchin had told him that he was not responsible for the earlier batteries, since he was not in charge at the time, but that it was unreasonable to expect commissioned officers to work with convict swine. Now, however, he merely knuckled his forehead in the same unnervingly amiable manner, leaving Hornblower to wonder if his look had saved a man from an undeserved beating.  
In the space of a minute, Hornblower’s mood had plummeted. Minchin’s contemptuous behaviour only made his own position more contumelious. A  
post-captain in charge of a convict gang? The notion was ridiculous and, were he anywhere else in the world, Hornblower was sure he would never have found

himself in such a position. But he was in Sydney, where convicts constituted the entire labour force, and Lieutenant Minchin was the best artillery officer available. That was the assignment he had accepted. But Hornblower disliked working with brutes like Minchin as much as Minchin evidently disliked working with convicts and, in that mood, it was easy to forget that there was no more important task Edward could have given him; that, if he were still in Europe, he might still be without a ship. In that mood, it was easy to forget that he had chosen to come to New South Wales.  
He stalked off to join Lieutenant Martin, who was with Meehan twenty yards back but only just visible through the underbrush. Martin saluted at his captain’s approach and Hornblower replied with a curt nod.  
“Report, if you please.”  
“Nothing to report, sir,” said Martin.  
Hornblower nodded again and for some minutes they stood rigidly, listening to the crunch and scrape of the convicts’ shovels. Eventually Hornblower sighed and his shoulders slumped, just enough for Martin to notice.  
“Sir?” Martin said hesitantly. He was naturally shy but his duty was to assist his captain and it was clear from Hornblower’s attitude that he was dissatisfied with something or other.  
Hornblower hesitated too. He longed to unburden his mind, as he would have if he had been with Edward, but Hornblower did not feel able to speak so freely with his officers; not even with Bush. “Have you noticed how the officers treat the convicts?” he said instead, thinking it more proper to ask Martin’s opinion than to offer his own.  
“Yes sir,” said Martin, still hesitant. “I wouldn’t like to see a petty officer treat the men like that, sir.”  
“No,” said Hornblower.  
“The funny thing is, sir—I was talking to Mr Meehan—and the supervisors are transports, too.”  
Hornblower nodded. Apparently Minchin’s attitude was shared by most of the New South Wales Corps and the governor had been forced to place convicts in charge of convicts because the officers would not allow their troops to be used for so base a task. Hornblower found the principle reminiscent of Bentham, though he supposed the use of convict supervisors was not very different to the hierarchy of non-commissioned officers—many of them originally pressed men—that existed on his own ship. Both systems worked well enough; at any rate, he was less concerned by the convicts he had encountered than some members of the New South Wales Corps.  
“As is Meehan himself, sir,” said Martin. Hornblower nodded again. “He told me.”  
“I suppose it’s not a likely place for volunteers, sir,”  
“No.” Despite Banks’ grand predictions and Macarthur’s prosperity, there were few free men and women prepared to leave England for an uncertain life in

a far-flung penal colony. At that moment, Hornblower certainly did not count himself among their number. Standing in the antipodean scrub, he could not help but think about what he might have been doing if he were in the Mediterranean or the Channel or the East Indies. He might be beating up the coast of Brest, looking into those bays where, months before, he had found an invasion force at anchor; he might be harassing Dutch ships in the Bay of Bengal; he might be landing troops in the rough African surf to recapture the Cape. Suddenly he felt more idle than he had after five days becalmed, for those idle days had been an unavoidable hiatus, while the idle hours he had spent on South Head were the sum total of his duty: a duty no more distinguished or demanding than reinforcing a remote ramshackle town that might never be attacked. Those hours had left him sceptical and restless. Were he still a midshipman, he might have chewed his nails but, as a captain, he could not permit himself even that mindless pastime. But he could walk away; that was within his prerogative. “Mr Martin, I’ll take my leave for an hour or so,” he announced. He saw no need to explain himself to his third lieutenant.  
“Aye sir,” said Martin. He looked mildly surprised when his captain lurched off through the crackling undergrowth, but he said nothing more.  
Hornblower walked south along the seaward side of the headland, picking his way through sticks and prickles that snagged his woollen trousers; treading unevenly over rocks and dry branches that demanded three quarters of his attention, lest he should trip and fall. Still, it was refreshing to travel untrodden paths, after so long aboard a frigate, where the farthest distance he could walk in a straight line was one hundred and fifty feet from stern to forecastle.  
He was among trees now, the arid grey-green trees that seemed to cover the entire continent, out of sight of Martin and the wretched work party. A pebble skittered ahead of him, he kicked a stick aside, then a few yards of flat sandy soil allowed him to take in his surroundings. The vegetation that had seemed strange and mysterious through the lens of his telescope was less compelling at close range: he saw spindly leaves and coarse bark, grey beneath the overcast sky. Hornblower wondered what it was about this country that had fascinated Sir Joseph Banks when he visited, three decades earlier. Perhaps it was the empty, alien feel of the place, Hornblower thought as he passed another  
slate-coloured shrub; another clump of coarse grass. The twisted, tortured trees were nothing like European species. They even smelled different: a strong distinctive scene, a little like camphor, which Mrs King called eucalyptus.  
He walked on, thinking about the trees, remembering the names that Banks had recounted as though recalling lords and ladies from a London party: eucalyptus, acacia, melaleuca, banksia. Then, as he walked, he began to see faces in the forest: black, bristled faces with a dozen eyes leering at him among scraggly branches and leathery leaves. Those were banksias, Hornblower realised: Banks had told him about the shrub, named in his honour, with its char-black cones and strange spiny flowers. The banksia did not look entirely unlike its namesake,

Hornblower mused, remembering Banks’ eyes and intense wiry brow. He wondered if Edward would agree and plucked one of the strange hairy things to show to him later. It made an awkward spiny mound in his pocket, but finding it had lightened his mood and he moved more lithely through the thousand-eyed forest.  
The woodland opened out further along, where expanses of bare rock overhung the ocean behind. The Tasman Sea, which had been a brilliant blue the day he arrived, was now dull green in the blanching glare, but it was the sea, wide, wild and vibrant; it refreshed Hornblower’s senses as no enclosed cove could. He walked on the fringe of the forest, venturing near the vertiginous edge long enough to glimpse the foaming crests. The sea was beautiful, he admitted to himself, and the strange craggy coast was beautiful too, with its alien trees and ancient rocks. Then he looked away, dizzied by the drop.  
He walked on, back amongst the trees. He had been too critical of this place, he thought. It was beautiful, strangely beautiful: a vast virgin continent, unknown and unexplored. He thought of Herodotus and his fantastical tales, but australia incognita was a greater mystery than the sources of the Nile. White men had barely touched the coast; not even the natives knew what lay beyond the mountain ranges—what rivers, what plains, what inconceivable beasts. As he walked, his spirit stirred as it had on first sighting King’s Island or Saint Helena, rising green and misty out of the endless sea. Hornblower remembered then why he had wanted to see New Holland: because it was remote and unknown; the very reasons why, minutes before, he had wished he had stayed in Portsmouth. He had not come to build a battery; he had come to be with Edward and to see a continent most men would never know.  
The land which had felt like a prison back at the battery site seemed to fill with possibilities and Hornblower wanted to explore. To the south were the inlets and golden beaches he had seen from a distance; now he day-dreamed about visiting them with Edward. He remembered the sweeping crescent of yellow where Péron hoped to land his troops and a dozen others along the spectacular coast from South Head to Botany Bay. They might take a boat one day, when the weather was warm, and lose long hours in the sand and surf. He loved to swim and he knew Edward did too. They would be adventurers like Bass and Flinders in their little Tom Thumb; they would be like the Endeavour crew in Tahiti, only they would need no island girls to make the place a paradise. Those beaches were not so very far away; if he kept walking he would reach them—but he knew he could not. He stopped, he checked his watch, and found that he had been gone for almost an hour. That meant another half-hour at least until he rejoined Martin.  
Hornblower turned back, scolding himself for letting the time slip by in ridiculous fancies. Only then did he wonder if he had done a foolish thing by dashing off into the unfamiliar and perhaps unfriendly forest. He knew that relations between the settlers and the natives were uncertain and sometimes

violent; he supposed he might be in danger, if not from indigenous spears, then from some discontented convict. He had enjoyed his walk too much to think of that before. But the walk had served its purpose: he was reconciled to New South Wales.

It was late afternoon when Minchin and Meehan told Hornblower they were satisfied with the site; evening when their boat returned to Sydney Cove. The work party went ashore but the oarsmen remained, waiting to take Hornblower and Martin back to Hyacinth.  
Hornblower looked at Government House, shrouded in the purple damask of evening, just as he had seen it for the first time.  
“Pull for Hyacinth, sir?” Martin asked.  
Hornblower took a moment to reply. He had no good reason to go ashore but he did not wish to return to his ship. “Not yet,” he said, hoping to sound more sure of himself than he actually was. Then he stepped on the thwart and onto the wharf. “Please go aboard, Mr Martin. I’ll call for my boat later.”  
“Aye aye, sir,” said Martin. He had not so much as blinked when his captain emerged from the bush and he did not blink now. Hornblower supposed that was one advantage of being in charge of the batteries: in his officers’ eyes, it would be perfectly explicable if he went ashore as often as he liked.  
Hornblower did not wait to see the boat pull away. Now that he had made his decision he hastened towards Government House. He felt vigorous and alive as he walked up the hill. His foul mood of earlier had well and truly lifted; instead he was buoyed by a sense of anticipation: he would complete what he had begun three days before. He went inside and was met by a servant in the hall.  
“I’m here to see the admiral,” Hornblower said bluffly. “He is in his room, sir.”  
Hornblower nodded and took the stairs in twos. Soon he was outside the room where he and Edward had spent their first night ashore. He had thought about that night often over the intervening days but he did not hesitate now. He rapped soundly on the door.  
“Mm-hmm?” came Pellew’s voice.  
It was not the ‘come’ Hornblower had expected, but he entered anyway. Inside he found Pellew sitting at the washbasin, towelling his face. Probably he was dressing for dinner, Hornblower thought, and thought nothing more of it.  
“Hornblower,” said Pellew, sounding mildly surprised. He was more surprised when, in the space of a second, Hornblower crossed the room, plucked the washcloth from his hand, and took his lips in a sudden kiss. “Horatio, I… Horatio—” he protested, half-heartedly, but he could not continue for Hornblower kissed him again, laughing as he kissed; laughing at Edward’s pop- eyed surprise until his laughter was lost between their close-pressed lips.  
Horatio climbed into Edward’s lap and made his face damp again as his kisses went everywhere. Edward’s newly-pressed uniform was quickly crumpled

and the collar he had just fastened came undone as long fingers, then a large nose, then warm lips sought out his throat. But when Horatio set to work on his waistcoat buttons, Edward pulled back, laughing as he said, “Horatio, what on earth are you doing?”  
“I don’t know,” Hornblower confessed. He had not known what he was doing when he decided to go ashore and he did not quite know what he was doing now. All he knew was that, if he could not lie with Edward on some sunny sandy beach, this was the next best thing. “Do you mind?” he asked.  
“Why, of course not, but—”  
Edward did not have a chance to finish his sentence because Horatio drew him into another kiss and he could never resist Horatio’s kisses. He seemed wary, however: uncertain or a little uncomfortable. Hornblower supposed he too felt awkward after their last night together. That was natural enough, he thought, but he did not want to think about that now. He did not feel awkward; he had not felt awkward three days earlier when he had hoped to spend the night on shore. So he drew back an inch and whispered, “Do I have your permission?”  
“Yes—yes, of course,” Pellew stammered; with anticipation, Hornblower hoped, and not anxiety. Then Edward shook his head, as though to clear it, and this time he took Horatio in another firm kiss. “Of course, I would be delighted.” As he spoke, his hand curled around Horatio’s backside, supporting him and pulling him closer.  
Edward was holding him like a father might hold a little child, but there was nothing child-like about Hornblower’s intentions: he was aware that it had been five nights since they had last shared a bed—not long, but it seemed a long time to Horatio, who had missed his company on Hyacinth. Moreover, he was anxious to show that the last night they had spent together had not spoiled anything; that five nights apart should not be more. He kissed Edward’s cheek, his jaw, and mouthed at his ear, murmuring “I hoped you might ask.”  
“I did not want to impose on you,” Pellew whispered, gathering him closer

still.

“On the contrary.” Hornblower kissed him again. “It seems I am imposed

upon you.”  
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Pellew laughed and surrendered again. He was defenceless against his lover’s affections. Horatio nipped his lips until he went weak then slipped his tongue within. Each lick made him shiver and each flick made him snatch, seizing the younger man’s shoulders as though he could never be close enough; as though his kisses were sweet nectar and he meant to suck them up. He grappled and grabbed, he parried and thrust, he returned each kiss with equal vigour. But when Horatio wrestled off his waistcoat, Edward pulled away.  
“Horatio, I wish—”  
Hornblower pulled back too, puzzled. “Are you late for dinner?” That was the only explanation he could countenance.

Pellew almost laughed. “No, it isn’t that.” He fixed on the brown eyes mere inches from his own. “You… my God I love you.” Whatever he had been about to say, that was all that mattered.  
Hornblower looked into his eyes for a long time. He too was enraptured, but fortunately not so entranced that he failed to hear the door handle turn. He flung himself from Pellew’s lap and somehow assumed a respectable pose before whoever it was could enter the room; he alone knew how his heart was pounding. Who would enter without knocking, he wondered angrily. When he looked, he saw Pownoll Pellew standing in the doorway.  
“Not ready yet?” he said, frowning at his father’s state of undress. Despite everything that had happened in the last few seconds, Hornblower was struck by the line between Pownoll’s eyes, just like Edward’s in low relief.  
Pellew had not been able to repair his dishevelled state but his tactical nous had seen him snatch up the washcloth and press it to his bare neck. He searched for words but Pownoll’s chiding spared him the need to speak.  
“We’ll be late for dinner,” he said, with so little regard for his father’s rank that Hornblower was no longer surprised he had not bothered to knock.  
Pellew recovered himself. He cleared his throat and cast aside the cloth, which was dripping on his shirt. He knew he was less ready than when Pownoll had left him ten minutes earlier, but at least the cool water had drawn the lusty heat from his cheeks. “Captain Hornblower was making his report,” he explained with an offhand nod.  
Only then did Pownoll notice Hornblower, standing quietly to one side of the room. “My apologies, captain,” he said, dipping his head. If he was surprised by Hornblower’s presence, it did not show in his mute brown eyes.  
“Yes yes, what were you saying?” Pellew went on, feigning impatience. “The engineers are satisfied with the site, sir.” Hornblower stumbled  
through the words without knowing quite what he was saying. “Lieutenant Minchin will tender his report in the morning.”  
“Good.” Pellew nodded brusquely.  
Pownoll looked at his father, then at Hornblower. “Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?”  
Hornblower vacillated. He knew now why Edward had resisted him: not because he did not want his attentions but because he had anticipated the interruption. On the one hand Hornblower was relieved, on the other he was disappointed, but above all he was embarrassed. He had not realised that Pownoll was still ashore—had he known, he would not have come—and now he decided to leave. “I thank you for the offer,” he said courteously, “but I must return to my ship.” That was not strictly true, he thought, but it was what he ought to have done in the first place.


	9. Chapter 9

The next afternoon, Hornblower watched from Hyacinth’s poop deck as the Lady Nelson left Sydney Cove, bound for Van Diemen’s Land. She would call first on Lieutenant-Governor Collins in Hobart, then seek Paterson in Port Dalrymple and any information he might have about François Péron. Her captain had been instructed to follow the coast where possible, on the off-chance of finding the missing merchantman.  
The brig passed Bradley’s Head and Hornblower collapsed his glass. He half wished he might have gone instead—he would have felt more useful playing messenger between Sydney and Hobart than standing on South Head with a dozen convicts and an ill-mannered engineer—but his men were in need of rest and fresh food after four months at sea. Instead he would continue to oversee the ordnance work at six miles’ distance: having spent one day with the survey party, Hornblower had decided to send Martin alone that morning.  
He was still standing by the taffrail, staring at the spot where the brig had disappeared, when Orrock drew his attention. “Sir, the admiral’s coming aboard.”  
Hornblower looked and saw a shore boat flying Pellew’s white flag.  
Several oar-strokes later, he could discern the familiar figure seated in the stern. Hornblower was almost too busy wondering what business—if, indeed, it was business—was bringing Edward aboard to remember that Edward was his commander-in-chief and must be received with due ceremony. “Well man, where’s the admiral’s pennant?” Hornblower snapped, as though it were Orrock and not he who had been slack.  
Matthews piped the sides, the Captain of Marines assembled his men and Orrock ran the length of the deck to ensure that every man was at his station. A few minutes later, Pellew arrived. For all Hornblower’s panic, the choreography was perfect and the result perhaps the greatest cacophony ever heard in Sydney Cove. Fifteen guns tore through the afternoon and Pellew’s pennant ran up the mizzen mast the very moment he passed through the entry port, but the admiral did not seem to appreciate the effort. He grimaced when Hornblower came forward to meet him. “One would think I was the enemy from the powder in the air.”  
“Sir, I—” Hornblower was not sure how to apologise for doing his duty. “Thank you, captain,” said Pellew. The soft look in his eyes told  
Hornblower he was only ragging: he had pride enough that he would not forgo

the ceremony due to him, no matter how ridiculous it might seem in the circumstances; perhaps especially in those circumstances. In Pellew’s view, no commander could ever be anything more than he was in the eyes of his men, and no man ought to see a superior officer humbled. Humanity was one thing but respect was another, and morale demanded that both be maintained.  
Bush dismissed the hands and Hornblower followed Pellew to the great cabin—his cabin, technically, though he had not slept there since arriving in Sydney.  
“I’m glad to see you set up in here,” said Pellew. “It pained my conscience to think of you sleeping in that little box for months on end.”  
“I am very comfortable, thank you sir.” Hornblower was a little uncomfortable around Edward, however, having left red-faced the night before.  
Pellew frowned; he had come as a friend but Hornblower insisted on addressing him as an officer. “Well, good,” he said, and walked to the window, where he had spent countless hours over the past months. Instead of the high seas, he saw a flat green harbour, undulating gently under the ship’s stern. “I read the engineer’s report over luncheon.” Turning, Pellew interrupted himself, “I assume you‘ve seen it?”  
“Yes.” That morning Minchin had submitted a report approving the site; Meehan was still on South Head, completing his survey. Hornblower had nothing to add to their observations.  
“My orders are that construction should begin immediately,” said Pellew. “Meanwhile, I expect the survey work to continue on North Head—with equal efficiency.”  
Hornblower nodded. Three days from inspection to first foundations would no doubt seem hasty to the colonial officers, but they would soon be acquainted with the standards expected by the British Navy with Admiral Pellew in command.  
“I imagine that, in a few weeks, we will be able to relieve you of your guns,” Pellew went on. He meant the four thirty-two-pounders Hyacinth had brought from England. “I’m sure you’ll agree there’s no sense in unloading them before time.”  
Again Hornblower nodded.  
“And so it seems we will have the defences completed in three months, rather than three years.”  
“I hope so, sir,” Hornblower said flatly. He knew it would be a considerable achievement, at least by local standards, yet he could summon no enthusiasm for his own part in it.  
Pellew looked at him for a moment, wondering what had become of the brazen boy who had ambushed him the previous night and plastered his face with kisses before he could explain that Pownoll was about. He smiled as he remembered. “But that’s all rather boring, don’t you think?”  
“I didn’t say that—”

“—You didn’t say it, Horatio, but it was written all over your face.” Pellew pressed on before Hornblower could protest. “At least, it was written on my face when I nearly fell asleep on the wretched report—but that’s my opinion and I’ll not compel you to agree.” He held Hornblower’s eyes until he elicited a faint smile.  
“Then… to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”  
“Well, since my son was so unkind as to interrupt us last night…”  
“Oh,” Hornblower swallowed. He saw then that Edward’s arrival had little to do with business.  
“What a heavenly visitation!” Pellew breathed. “And if you’d not had to leave—”  
Hornblower looked up. “I believe it was you who had to leave.”  
“I know, Horatio, and I am a fool for keeping an idle boy with me when I could have…” Pellew came closer; his voice sunk lower. “When I could have this.”  
Hornblower made a nervous sound, somewhere between a laugh and a shudder—but he had no reason to be nervous, he reminded himself. After all, Edward only wanted what he had wanted when he went to his room and thrust himself into his arms. But he was not sure what to do next: did they begin where they left off, there in the great cabin, in the afternoon watch? “Edward… now?”  
“Well, are you busy?”  
“No, but…” Hornblower looked to the door, to the stern windows, to the skylight above. Half of him wanted to kiss Edward then and there but the other half was too conscious of the sunlight streaming in.  
Edward came closer still, taking Horatio’s hands in his own. “In that case,” he whispered and leaned in for a kiss.  
Hornblower stepped back. “Is this why you came here?” he said, smiling as he stalled.  
Pellew nodded imperceptibly; he was as oblivious to Hornblower’s discomfort as to the bright afternoon outside. “I suppose I should have come quietly, over the other side.”  
“I suppose it would have saved the powder.” Hornblower almost laughed but his body remained rigid as Edward moved behind him, kissing his neck then wrapping his arms around his waist. He slipped three buttons and slid his hand up inside Horatio’s waistcoat. Horatio let out a breath and relaxed a little, but when Edward leaned in to press himself against him, Horatio looked over his shoulder, asking his intentions.  
Pellew froze; tempted as he was, he did not want Horatio to feel trapped. “We might go over Minchin’s report, if you prefer.”  
“Edward…” Hornblower frowned; he was nervous but Edward was acting as though he were cold, and he did not want to be thought cold. He sighed and leaned back into Edward’s embrace, but the moment Edward’s lips found his neck he pulled away again.

“You’re not afraid, are you?”  
“No,” said Hornblower. He was wary but not frightened. He would have felt differently had they been on a secluded beach, or cloistered behind bed curtains, or locked in the little sleeping cabin in the dark of night, but the bright light seemed all-seeing.  
“No?” Edward ran his hand down the younger man’s back and slowly over the slight curve of his behind. Horatio realised then that he was not talking about the possibility of discovery: Edward thought he was afraid of him.  
“Why should I be frightened?” Hornblower said quietly. “I don’t think I need to say why.”  
Hornblower turned abruptly, so they were face to face. It was not Edward’s touch that troubled him; quite the opposite: he wished Edward would trust him. Hornblower put his arms around his neck and kissed him decisively, mindless of the sun and the gallery windows. When he pulled back, he left Edward wide-eyed. “Do you think I was afraid when I came to you the other night?”  
Edward did not reply. Instead he took Horatio’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “You have beautiful hands,” he said, looking at the slender fingers wrapped around his own.  
“Not quite.” Hornblower turned his hand over, so they could both see the pale scar running down his palm.  
Pellew kissed his palm. “Beautiful hands. Brave, beautiful hands.” “Edward—”  
“They are, Horatio.”  
Hornblower shook his head slowly. “You’re being foolish.”  
“No. I merely wish I might have seen more of these hands last night.” He arched one brow suggestively; it was Hornblower who felt foolish when he realised what was meant.  
“Your son was there.”  
“I know.” Pellew did not fail to notice the note of reproach in Horatio’s tone. “And he’s still there—but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you there.”  
“I’m sorry,” Hornblower said woodenly. He did not know why he was apologising, since it seemed to him that Edward had created the problem by asking Pownoll to stay, but apologising was easier than attempting to explain his muddled feelings.  
“Don’t be sorry.” Edward let go of his hand and folded his arms behind his back. It was clear from his manner that he was agitated about something; Hornblower hoped he had not offended him by seeming envious or resentful of his son. “I only wish the two of you might get to know each other better,” Pellew said eventually. “I dare say Pownoll would benefit from the acquaintance and… well, I had some silly notion that the two of you might be friends.” He pushed the words out as he always did when he was embarrassed: unevenly and without looking Hornblower in the eye.

Hornblower sighed. It was a silly notion—surely Edward knew that one could no more tell a man whom to befriend than whom to love—and he was surprised that Edward should tout it now, when he had been so sheepish about bringing Pownoll along in the first place. It upset him; still, he could understand the sentiment, for it doubtless upset Edward to see two men he loved remain alien to each other. “I have tried,” he said quietly.  
“Hmm?”  
“I have tried talking to him.”  
“I don’t doubt it,” said Pellew. “And I don’t pretend that Pownoll isn’t a little difficult sometimes.” He smiled faintly. “You’re both shy—but, last night, it did look rather like you stopped talking the moment he entered the room.”  
Hornblower frowned. “What was I supposed to say?”  
“You might have said ‘good evening, but please come back later, because I’m making love to your father’.” Pellew looked at Hornblower and saw him wincing. He shook his head. “I take your point, Horatio. And I suppose you’ve not had much of a chance to get to know each other.”  
“No. As Captain Walton said, it’s difficult with a mile of ocean in between.” Hornblower did not add that he had got to know Walton.  
“Well, that’s something we might attend to while we wait for news from the south.” Pellew cocked his head to one side. “Why not come ashore tonight? I think I may presume you’ve no pressing business here, and I did mention to Pownoll that we might have a hand of cards.”  
Hornblower nodded slowly. Edward’s proposal was clearly not unmeditated and he could hardly refuse, not when he saw the hopeful look in Edward’s eyes. “Why not?” he said, adding silently that, even if he could not bridge the void between himself and Pownoll, he might at least take some money off him.  
Soon there was a knock at the door. “Come,” said Hornblower.  
It was Bush, with the purser’s docket for his signature. Hornblower ran his eye quickly over the accounts then added his name, confident that Bush would have checked it all meticulously. “Thank you,” he said, and Bush departed. “I ought to let Bush ashore,” he added. “And Martin: I sent him to wait on Lieutenant Minchin this morning.”  
“I’m sure they both deserve some time ashore,” said Pellew. “And so do

you.”

“Aye aye sir.” Hornblower smiled. “I’ll tell Bush he’s needed a little

longer.” Hornblower started after his first lieutenant.  
“Wait a moment,” said Pellew. “Best button up first.”  
“Thank you.” Hornblower stopped to fix his uniform. “I can’t believe you came out here to undo three buttons.”  
“I had every intention of undoing the lot.”

“Some of the men are already on leave,” Hornblower said as they sat in the parlour at Government House.  
“Since I’ve heard nothing of them, I take it there were no incidents?” “No,” said Hornblower, pleased to be able to say it. Some captains were  
too cautious—or too harsh—to allow shore leave, even in distant ports, but his men had proved themselves a good crew and he would reward them for it.  
“Well, I’d expect more trouble from stow-aways than deserters,” said Pellew.  
“Is it such a bad place?” To Hornblower, the gun deck of a frigate seemed a paradise compared with Lieutenant Minchin’s work gang, but he suspected that some of his men might do very well in New South Wales: men like Styles, a good man and hard-working, but with a propensity for getting into trouble that had prompted Bush to wonder how he had avoided the transport ships; or Kerridge, able seaman, by all accounts too able to be a mere seaman but too ill-disciplined to rise any higher. Kerridge, Hornblower thought, was precisely the kind of intelligent and industrious man who might make something of himself in a new land where naval discipline did not apply, like James Ruse, who had started out a convict and become the first landholder in the colony.  
“Perhaps not.” Pellew smiled, reaching for the decanter. “I wasn’t sure if you meant what you said the other day, or if it was all sentiment.”  
Hornblower looked at him levelly as he replied, “It was sentiment, and I did mean it.” It was a mark of how easy he felt with Edward that he did not blush as he spoke; Edward did not blush either but Hornblower could tell he was abashed.  
“For now, I’m quite content,” he said, and poured himself another half- glass. “But you’d better put that away from me—this is my second already and there’s an hour ‘till tea.”  
“Third,” said Hornblower, dryly but not disapprovingly. Edward held his liquor better than most of the men on the lower deck and certainly better than he. He did not allow Edward to refill his glass because he did not wish to be drunk, certainly not before supper. He smiled. “I’ll take it outside with me, shall I?”  
“Outside? Are you leaving?” “Only to stretch my legs.”  
“But it’s getting dark, and cold—it is winter, you know.”  
Hornblower rose. “If we were in England you’d call this balmy.” He tapped the glass decanter so it rang like a bell. “Now, can I trust you?”  
“Leave it here, and take me instead.” Pellew rose with a grunt. “I suppose  
the fresh air will do me good.”  
They went outside and wandered from one end of the porch to the other, where an infant vine climbing up a classical arch formed the beginnings of an Arcadian arbour. Pellew had to admit it was a pleasant evening; fresh but not cold. “I sound like an old man,” he said, but Hornblower only smiled and

watched quietly while the setting sun painted Sydney gold and gaudy mauve and set the clouds afire.  
They were still there when the fierce auburn had faded and the eastern sky had turned an inky blue. Then, in the last purple light, they saw Pownoll coming up the garden path, reminding Hornblower of why he had come ashore.  
“Captain,” Pellew called out as his son mounted the steps.  
Pownoll took a moment to see them in the dark. “Good evening,” he said. “Good evening, captain—I’m pleased you could join us.” He was near enough now for Hornblower to see him smiling.  
“I’m pleased you could join us,” said Pellew, before Hornblower had a chance to reply. “Where have you been till after dark?”  
“Well, it wasn’t dark when I left town.”  
“All of three hundred yards away.” Pellew shook his head fondly. “You terrific idler!”  
“I was exploring.” Pownoll laughed; he had a quiet pleasant laugh and a pleasant smile, which came as something of a surprise to Hornblower, who had begun to think him incapable of anything other than the smooth unreadable expression he almost invariably wore. “If you could call it that,” he added.  
“Not worth the bother, then?” said Pellew. While his tone was waggish, it seemed to Hornblower that he wanted his son’s true estimate of the town.  
“Perhaps not worth invading,” Pownoll sallied.  
Pellew grunted; apparently that was not what he wanted to hear. He started back towards the front door and the younger men followed.  
“Though I hear the farm areas are rather pleasant,” Pownoll went on, “if one cares for that sort of thing. The governor was saying—”  
“—You’ve seen him, then?” Pellew had not seen the governor since breakfast.  
“Oh yes.” Pownoll pulled up a third chair to the small table where two glasses of wine still stood, half drunk. “We took tea together. He suggested we pay a visit out there, if we’re after sight-seeing.”  
Pellew nodded. King had said the same thing the night they arrived in Sydney. “I’m sure it’s very pleasant—but will he join us for cards? I think that is the more pressing matter.”  
“I didn’t ask.”  
“Well, I’ll ask him at supper. I should hate to disappoint Captain Hornblower, having brought him over here.” Pellew glanced at Hornblower, who almost smiled.  
Pownoll was looking at him, too. “It is a pleasure to have your company, captain—though my father tells me I’ll regret it.”  
Pellew chuckled. “Time will tell.” He reached for the wine. “My strategy, you see, to ensure that neither of you make a fool of me.” He topped up both glasses, and filled a third for Pownoll. “That ought to dull your Whist—and mine as well.”

Hornblower rolled his eyes; had there been a fourth person in the room, he would have been embarrassed. “That presupposes that you have any wits to dull.”  
Laughing, Pownoll raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”  
Pellew laughed as well. “You know, Hornblower, you’ve more wit than you realise.” He raised his glass then drank. “Not bad, this,” he added. “Courtesy of Master Robertson—and I think we don’t question how it got out of Bordeaux.”  
“I think we don’t question how you came by it.” Pownoll raised his glass again. “Here’s to the rum laws.”  
“It’s not quite like that,” said Pellew. “And even if I were to start trafficking the stuff out of my ships, I don’t think the governor would be in a great hurry to notice. But no-one’s prohibited from procuring it—and certainly not from drinking.”  
“Hardly,” said Pownoll. “I walked down Barrack Row this afternoon and I don’t think I saw a man sober.”  
“Still, that’s not the point. Men are drunk every day—in taverns and in country parlours—and I think the governor enjoys his wine well enough to know he won’t change that. It’s the monopoly he’s concerned about—”  
“—But a government brewery?” Again Pownoll surprised Hornblower by blithely interrupting his father. “He’s simply substituting one monopoly for another. The whole policy is hypocritical.” Pownoll looked to Hornblower for support. “What is your opinion, captain?”  
“Ah—” Hornblower was caught off-guard: it was a difficult question; hardly the way he would have chosen to begin the evening’s conversation with a man whom he knew so little. “From what I’ve heard, it seems the restrictions have been as disruptive as the drink itself.”  
Pownoll nodded and turned smugly to his father, as though Hornblower’s words had won him the argument. “I don’t see why anyone should be forbidden from selling what men wish to buy. As Adam Smith says—”  
“—Adam Smith has nothing to do with this,” said Pellew. “The governor’s policy is not about commerce. It’s about asserting authority over the Rum Corps—that’s what they’re called. But, since you’re dissatisfied with the present situation, captain, you might put some thought into how it could be improved.” He looked firmly at Pownoll, to make it clear that the suggestion might as well have been an order.  
“I shall,” Pownoll replied and drank; Hornblower could not help but notice that he emptied a glass even faster than his father. “The problem with this place is that it’s full of criminals.”  
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”  
“I know,” said Pownoll. “I only mean we can’t hope to make a utopia out of a penal colony.”

“Nor am I asking you to—but we’re here to protect the colony and if that means securing it against internal strife, that is as much our responsibility as if the harbour were under attack. We don’t want any more convict uprisings giving Boney ideas—and, if the Corps take arms while I’m here, I want to be sure they’re fighting for the governor.” Pellew eyed Pownoll, who nodded meekly.  
Then he looked at Hornblower. “What can you tell us, captain? You’ve had first- hand experience of the Corps.”  
Hornblower cleared his throat quietly. “It seemed to me that some of the soldiers were worse behaved than the convicts under their orders.”  
“That doesn’t surprise me, given that most of them came from the Savoy.” “Yes,” said Hornblower. The Savoy was the military prison in London;  
the only sure source of recruits when the Corps was formed more than a decade earlier. But he was thinking chiefly of Lieutenant Minchin, who boasted of being the only free man to arrive on the Lady Shore. Hornblower refrained from naming him. “But I have found Mr Meehan agreeable to work with.”  
“What was he?” asked Pownoll. “An Irish transport.”  
Pellew nodded. “And a reminder of the complexity of the problem. It’s been a thorn in the governor’s side for years; I don’t think we’re going to solve it in one evening—certainly not before supper! Speaking of which, does that not smell promising?”  
“It does,” said Pownoll. Roast beef was in the air.

They did not speak of the rum laws over supper. Instead they made light conversation about the mild weather and the crops at Parramatta until the gentlemen repaired to the drawing room and the evening began in earnest. They sat around the spindly little card table near the pianoforte, four sets of knees knocking occasionally under the polished mahogany top, while Mrs King perched elegantly by the fire, working on her needle point. Once Hornblower felt something nudge his knee and looked up to see Edward watching him with the slightest hint of a smile. He let their knees rest together after that, grateful that the cramped little table afforded them that secret intimacy, even with Pownoll and the governor and his wife so near. But he betrayed nothing above the table: King had assumed that the two Pellews would want to play as a pair and neither man said anything to dissuade him. That left Hornblower to partner King, who had so far contributed just one trick to the partnership.  
The governor watched fatalistically as Pellew trumped his lead. “I do apologise, captain,” he said to Hornblower. “I have not played for some time, and my game is not what it was—or perhaps it never was very good.”  
“You could always beat me,” said Mrs King, glancing up from her work long enough to catch her husband’s eye.  
“Not at all, sir,” Hornblower said graciously, though he would have much preferred to partner Edward, not because they were lovers but because he was a

far better player than King. Edward and Pownoll were winning so far and Hornblower barely hoped for a change of fortune, for it seemed that the son took after the father where Whist was concerned.  
Another hand to the Pellews; Hornblower watched Pownoll as he dealt the next. His hair was a shade lighter than what Edward’s once had been; his eyes just as round and brown—yet it seemed to Hornblower that they were somehow very different. It was the way they used their eyes, Hornblower thought. Edward looked men in the eye with a gaze that could strike terror or whisper tender things. Even at cards, when one might hope to mask an expressive gaze, Edward could use those eyes to his advantage: to unnerve his opponents and demand their thoughts. But Pownoll’s gaze did not speak as his father’s did; he kept rather than compelled secrets. What was he thinking now, Hornblower wondered, as he studies those impassive eyes.  
“Captain?” said Pownoll.  
Only then did Hornblower remember it was his lead. “Thank you,” he muttered, and played his highest trump. He was glad it was the first trick, for that required little thought and he had given it none; in that respect, Pownoll’s eyes had served their owner well. But Hornblower struggled to maintain his own mask when the governor failed to follow suit, showing that he had not a single trump. Hornblower manage to win the hand, however, and the next as well. The scores were nearly even.  
Mrs King had retired and the governor was yawning by the time Pellew and his son won the rubber.  
“Congratulations Sir Edward,” said King. “Congratulations, captain—and thank you, Captain Hornblower.”  
Hornblower shook the governor’s hand. “Thank you for an enjoyable evening, sir.”  
“Indeed,” said Pellew. “I hope we may persuade you to many similar evenings in the future.”  
King smiled too. “Thank you, Sir Edward. I am honoured that you should think me a worthwhile opponent—and partner.” He looked at Hornblower as he added the last words. “But for now, gentlemen, I am afraid I must take my leave.”  
“Of course,” said Pellew.  
“Then I shall say good night,” said King. “Only—if I may ask, sir—were all three of you planning to stay here tonight?”  
Pellew glanced at the two younger men. “We’ve not discussed it.” “Then I must arrange something.” King’s brow furrowed. “I regret that  
this house is not so accommodating as one would expect of a governor’s residence—that is, we have only the two guest bedrooms, sir, but my daughter can sleep with her governess—”  
“—No no,” Pellew said quickly. “Please do not trouble yourself, sir, or your family. I’m sure we can agree amongst ourselves.”

“Well…” King still looked troubled; he was clearly anxious to be a good host but Government House was simply not large enough to accommodate an admiral’s retinue as well as his own family. “If you’re certain?” he said eventually, giving in to the weariness which showed in dark circles beneath his deep-set eyes.  
“Indeed, I insist,” said Pellew.  
“Thank you kindly, sir.” King bid his good nights and was gone. “There is that small matter…” Pellew mused aloud.  
“I’ll return to the ship, sir,” said Hornblower. That was not what he wanted—when he felt Edward’s touch beneath the table he had dared to hope they would spend the night together—but he knew that could not happen while Pownoll was there, and Pownoll showed no sign of leaving.  
Pellew did not like his solution. “Nonsense,” he said. “There’s no sense in dashing back at this hour, even if you can find a boat to take you.”  
“Very well,” said Hornblower. He was sure he could find a boat, if he wanted one, but Edward evidently wished him to stay. Perhaps he planned for them to sleep together after all—though Hornblower could not think how to arrange it. He could hardly propose to share with Edward: obviously the highest- ranking officer would have a bed to himself; even if Edward did share, it would be most natural for him to share with his son. He could hardly be with Edward then, Hornblower thought: the idea of them all ending up in bed together was too awful to be amusing. Hornblower realised that, if he was to spend the night, there was only one possible solution.  
“I don’t mind if Captain Hornblower shares with me,” said Pownoll. “That is, if you have no objections, captain?”  
When Pownoll looked at him with those large dark eyes, Hornblower found he had no choice. “That is very kind of you, captain,” said Hornblower. He sounded calm but his mind was capering like a drunk fool in some comedy of errors: he would get to spend the night with Pellew after all. The wrong Pellew.  
“Then our problem is solved.” Pownoll smiled.  
A moment later, Hornblower’s mind had cleared enough to wonder whether he had been unkind to Pownoll who, over the course of the evening, had shown himself well-mannered, articulate and amiable enough to offer to share his bed. But Pownoll’s kindness only made Hornblower more uncomfortable: there was something uneasy and unnatural about sharing a bed with his lover’s son.  
Hornblower looked plaintively at Edward—but Edward only saw the funny side. “Very good, very good,” he said, sounding a little drunk himself. “I don’t  
think either of you snore—well, not very much.” Then he cut himself off, for while he would conceivably know that his son snored, such comments were less explicable in the case of his flag captain. The timbers of a frigate were not that flimsy.

The three men lingered a little longer—longer than they might have, Hornblower felt, had more favourable sleeping arrangements awaited them. He

watched Edward over his port, thinking how well he looked in the ruddy glow of the fire, how brightly his eyes caught the candlelight, and how dearly his tufty hair stuck up on top. Hornblower thought of smoothing down that hair, only to mess it up again when they went to bed, safe in the knowledge that Pownoll was elsewhere, out of sight and out of ear-shot. He imagined lying in the soft feather bed, his head on Edward’s bare shoulder, breathing in time with his rising, falling chest—but there was Pownoll, spoiling his plans as he had spoiled them the night before.  
“Well, that’s the bottle gone,” said Pellew, setting his empty glass on the table. “I suppose I’ll retire, since I can be of no further service here.”  
“Me too,” said Pownoll. He stood up and stretched.  
Hornblower remained at the table long enough to catch his lover’s eye. He wished there were some way to be together; he wished they had stayed on Hyacinth when Edward came that afternoon. But Edward merely smiled, knowing there was no more they could do that night.  
They made their way upstairs, creaking dreadfully on the narrow old boards.  
Pellew paused before his bedroom door. “Good night,” he whispered. “Sleep well, both of you. I’ll see you at breakfast.”  
“Good night,” said Pownoll. “Good night sir,” said Hornblower.  
“This one’s ours,” Pownoll added, opening the other door. “Not much of a room—or a bed, for that matter—but I forget you’ve slept here.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower, following him into the tiny room. “Have you— have you stayed here long?” He asked the question though he already knew the answer.  
Pownoll nodded. “Since the night after we arrived.” As he spoke, he took off his coat and hung it on the hook on the back of the door. “It’s a refreshing change after four months on the Pig, and there’s nothing to do aboard—nothing that Keogh can’t do, that is.” He untied his neckcloth. “I imagine you’ve found the same?”  
“Ah—yes,” Hornblower said belatedly. He was distracted with wishing that he had spent those nights ashore; not because he was tired of Hyacinth but because he wanted to be with Edward. But then he realised that he had been watching Pownoll undress and averted his eyes. He looked around the room. It was even smaller than he remembered, as was the half-tester bed, and Pownoll’s sea chest, placed at the foot, partly obstructed the door. The cramped little space would have been oppressively close, even if he had not been obliged to share it with a man he barely knew.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pownoll throw off his waistcoat. “Mr Bush sees to most of the routine work,” Hornblower stammered, barely aware of what he was saying, yet anxious to say something rather than stand in awkward

silence as his companion changed for bed. “And I… while I—” He stepped out of the way when Pownoll went to his chest. “While I attend to the batteries.”  
“Of course.” Pownoll stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Have you your nightshirt, captain?”  
“I don’t,” said Hornblower.  
Pownoll handed him one of his, creased but clean. “Here,” he said, “wear

this.”

“Thank you.”  
Hornblower unbuttoned himself hastily and turned his back when he took

off his trousers. It made no sense that a man who happily showered in front of his crew should be self-conscious stripping off in front of a fellow captain but, for Hornblower, there was something strange about undressing in front of his lover’s son and borrowing his small clothes. But Pownoll was perfectly relaxed: Hornblower turned around to see him lazily pull his nightshirt over his well- muscled back. He looked only for a moment, but long enough to see Edward’s blood in the young man’s build: his back was strong and his shoulders broad.  
If it was strange to change together, it was stranger still to get in bed together: Pownoll first, then Hornblower, positioning himself neatly in the narrow space remaining so that no part of his body touched Pownoll’s. It was difficult, since the bed was far too small for two grown men and there was only one bolster. Hornblower had never lain so intimately with any man besides Edward, yet he would rather have lain with a complete stranger than with Edward’s son. Again he felt awkward—physically, now, as well as mentally—and again he tried to think of something to say to dispel that awkwardness.  
Ultimately it Pownoll who spoke. “Shall I douse the light?”  
“Yes, if you like,” Hornblower sighed. Only then did he realise he had been holding his breath: the mattress was so narrow that he could not breathe deeply without rubbing up against his bedfellow. Still, even that brief exchange helped to diffuse the peculiar feeling of lying in bed with Pownoll, close enough to feel the warmth of his body.  
Pownoll blew out the candle. “Good night,” he said pleasantly, and turned onto his side, completely unaware of Hornblower’s discomfort.  
“Good night,” said Hornblower, but he soon realised he would not be able to sleep in the constricted position he was lying in. So, after perhaps ten minutes of darkness, he ventured to rearrange himself, disturbing the bedclothes as little as possible. But he need not have worried, for Pownoll was not asleep either.  
“I think the governor is right,” he said. “This house is in need of enlargement.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. There was no sense in pretending he was asleep, when it was apparent they were both quite awake. “Though I believe it has been enlarged already.”  
“Then I hate to think what it was like before.” It was pitch black but Hornblower could hear the mirth in Pownoll’s voice.

asked.

“This room would not be as large as your cabin, would it?” Hornblower

“About half the size, I think—though the ceiling’s higher.” Pownoll rolled

onto his back. “I hear my father deprived you of yours?”  
“Yes, though I’ve had the use of it since he’s been on shore.”  
“I heard that too.” They were both quiet for a minute or two before Pownoll spoke again. “Why do you call him ‘sir’?”  
Hornblower frowned in the dark. He was surprised by the question: the answer was obvious and Hornblower worried, for a moment, that Pownoll apprehended something between him and his father.  
“I know you’re friends,” Pownoll added; Hornblower could not tell if he approved or not.  
“Because he is my superior officer,” Hornblower replied. He considered pointing out that Edward was Pownoll’s superior too, but he kept his thoughts to himself.  
“I don’t mean that,” said Pownoll. “But tonight, when we were playing cards, after the governor went to bed…”  
He fell silent, leaving Hornblower to rake his mind for any look or inappropriate line that might have raised suspicions, but he could think of nothing. Not even their knees had betrayed anything, pressed beneath the table.  
“Never mind,” said Pownoll. “What I mean is, I don’t think he’d mind if you didn’t.”  
“Oh,” said Hornblower. It was almost a sigh of relief, and he was further reassured when he heard Pownoll laugh.  
“I was going to say you might call me Pellew—but that would be confusing, wouldn’t it? Call me Pownoll, if you like.”  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. Their conversation had taken another unexpected turn, but this time it was welcome. He was flattered by Pownoll’s gesture, even if he did not feel he knew him that well; Edward would certainly be pleased to see them on first-name terms. “Hornblower, of course,” he said in turn. “I mean, Horatio.”  
“Shall we shake hands, then? Though I suppose the horse has bolted if we’re already sharing a bed!”  
Hornblower started, but Pownoll’s airy laugh showed he meant nothing by the remark. “Yes, why not?” said Hornblower, extricating his arm from the bedclothes. They found each other’s hands in the darkness and shook.  
Hornblower’s palm was clammy with anxiety; Pownoll’s warm and dry. Then they lay back, more relaxed now, their shoulders touching lightly.  
“Well, good night,” said Pownoll. “Good night,” said Hornblower.  
As he lay waiting for sleep—not rigidly now, but resting naturally against Pownoll’s warm shoulder—Hornblower reflected on his own apprehension about spending the evening with Edward and his son. It had been quite unfounded; he

had enjoyed the meal and the game of cards, and he had established some sort of friendship with Pownoll—albeit not the natural rapport he felt with Thomas Walton. He supposed Edward was right: he and Pownoll had to make an effort to get to know each other or they would remain strained and aloof, and that would be detrimental to their mission, personal feelings aside. Hornblower was glad Pownoll had behaved so hospitably towards him. In that respect, he was glad to find himself in Pownoll’s bed. But, at the same time, he wished that Pownoll had remained what he had been six months ago: a mere name; another world. Hornblower had always found it strange to think of Edward’s other life— his wife and children—and it was stranger now that Pownoll had stepped out of that other life and into his. Perhaps he was jealous, knowing that he was not everything to Edward as Edward was to him, but above all he was disappointed. His body was disappointed. He remembered Edward coming aboard Hyacinth that morning with an admiral’s fanfare and no intent but to make love. He had baulked then—why, he could not remember—but such a visitation would be very welcome now. He had wanted it for days.  
Hornblower shifted, growing restless. He thought of Edward, alone in the other room, and—if only he could steal away—the things they might do. The idea made him itch, though he knew he could not go to him. Still, he thought about it, and the more he thought, the more he itched. He did not feel at all tired and he did not want to sleep. He wanted to touch himself, he realised, and only the fact that he was in Pownoll’s bed—in Pownoll’s nightshirt—kept him from hitching up his hem. Instead he lay motionless, knowing he could neither leave nor relieve himself, until the rash blood retreated from his groin to his flushed cheeks.

When he woke the next morning, Hornblower was disoriented to find himself pressed against a man he barely knew; horrified to find his own erection pressed against that man’s thigh. Gasping, he rolled onto his back and lay absolutely still, listening to the pulse of his pounding heart. Panic brought him down as quickly as a lead line. He was immeasurably glad to see that Pownoll was still asleep and that his nightshirt was clean and dry. Nonetheless he felt like a dirty school boy. He could not imagine a more appalling abuse of Pownoll’s hospitality.  
Some minutes later, when he was calmer but sleep had not reclaimed him, Hornblower attempted to estimate the time. It was early, but the grey light from the small window allowed no greater precision. He waited another minute then slipped out of bed and tip-toed across the room to fetch his watch.  
“What is it?” Pownoll asked sleepily; perhaps he was not really awake. “Nothing,” said Hornblower. “Only checking the time.”  
“Mm,” said Pownoll. Hornblower did not know him well enough to know whether the sound was grumpy or merely groggy. “What time is it?”  
“A little after five.”

“Oh.” Pownoll rolled onto his other side, taking half the blankets with him. “No point in getting up yet. No naval routine here.”  
Hornblower was about to protest that he had work to do when he remembered that he didn’t. He was not on his ship; there were no courses to plot nor even reports to write. At any rate, Pownoll had drifted off again before he could reply.  
Hornblower got back in bed. He supposed he might as well sleep for another half hour, then, when the day was light enough, he would go for a walk before breakfast. He found he could not lie comfortably, however, for the depression he had made overnight sloped inexorably towards Pownoll and, given the circumstances in which he had woken, Hornblower was anxious to avoid any contact. Instead he lay precariously on the very edge of the mattress, propped on one elbow to keep himself from rolling; all the while aware of the ache in his groin, the toll of wanting and not having. He was far from comfortable and, as the room grew gradually brighter, it became apparent that he would not sleep again. Instead he found himself studying the sleeping form before him: Pownoll’s smooth brown hair, still neat in its bow, and the swathe of skin revealed by his rumpled shirt.  
Once again Hornblower found himself looking at Pownoll but thinking of Edward, noting all the similarities and differences between them. Pownoll’s shoulders were the image of Edward’s, strong and well-rounded. Had he mistaken those shoulders for Edward’s while he was asleep? Or was it Pownoll himself who fascinated him, in some way he could not and did not want to understand? The moment he asked himself that question, Hornblower decided it was time to get out of bed. He left without waking Pownoll and found himself on the landing, facing Edward’s door. He could hardly dally there in nothing but his nightshirt, he told himself. Without knocking, he entered Edward’s bedroom.  
Pellew was asleep and snoring gently. Hornblower closed the door and watched him for a while: the bed curtains were open and the early sun through the north-facing window gave light enough to see. It must be six o’clock, Hornblower reasoned; if he were on the ship, Edward would be up, so he supposed it was not unreasonable to wake him. He stood by the bed and gently touched his shoulder. “Edward,” he whispered.  
“Hmm—what?” Pellew took a moment to wake and another moment to realise who was waking him.  
“Good morning,” Hornblower said softly.  
“Horatio,” Pellew croaked. He raised one eyebrow with as much humour as he could muster early in the morning. “How may I be of service?”  
Hornblower said nothing but his hand remained on Pellew’s shoulder. “Is it time to get up?” Pellew asked. He seemed confused. “I told—” He  
paused to clear his throat and rub his eyes. “I told Merrick not to wake me, on account of last night.”  
Hornblower smiled. “In that case, may I get in?”

“Yes—yes of course.” No matter how drowsy he was, Pellew understood that. He moved over with some effort. “I seem to have made a burrow.”  
Hornblower climbed in. “It’s lovely and warm.”  
They settled themselves so they were snuggled close; their noses almost touching. Hornblower thought Edward had fallen asleep again until he asked, “Is Pownoll up?”  
“No, but I woke up and I couldn’t get back to sleep.” “He was snoring, was he?”  
“Not that I heard,” said Hornblower. “But, when I woke up, I realised I had made a terrible error.”  
“Come now, it can’t be so bad—at least the boy washes.”  
“No.” Hornblower quietened him with a quick kiss on the lips. “I was in bed with the wrong man.”  
Pellew smiled. “Well, I hope you realised before—”  
Hornblower hastened to stop him up with another kiss before Edward realised how close he had come to guessing his shameful secret.  
“Oh, don’t be so serious,” Pellew grunted when Hornblower released him. “But I would be terribly jealous.”  
Hornblower replied with a wincing smile—but he was determined not to let Edward know what had happened or let it spoil the rest of his morning. He pressed one hand to Edward’s chest and ran his fingers through the sparse hair. “Did you sleep well?”  
“I was sleeping well, until you came and woke me.” “I’m sorry—”  
“For God’s sake Horatio, can’t you tell by now when I’m joking?” Edward pulled him close, cradling his head on his broad chest—just as Hornblower had imagined the night before. Pellew began to stroke his hair. “I can think of nothing more delightful than this beautiful angel rousing me from my sleep.”  
Hornblower laughed; the contrast between Edward’s curmudgeonly grumbling and his sappy sentimentalism was as amusing as it was moving. “Besides which, I owe you something.” Edward’s hand strayed from  
Horatio’s hair to his breastbone and then to his belly.  
“Edward, don’t say it like that,” said Hornblower—but, even as he protested, Edward began to touch him.  
“Then, am I permitted to say that I missed you last night?”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower, his throat constricted as he stirred to life under his lover’s touch. “I missed you too.”  
“Mm.” Pellew was impressed by the response he had elicited. “And what are we going to do about all this missing each other?” He worked in small circles that made Horatio wriggle.  
“Oh…”

“Perhaps close that curtain for starters.” Suddenly Edward’s attentive hand was gone as he pulled the bed curtains about them. “Otherwise poor Merrick will get the shock of his life when he does come in.”  
Ordinarily Hornblower would have been alarmed at the thought of anybody coming in, whether or not the curtains were closed, but his only response was to pull Edward back down onto the bed. The itch of unrequited lust was eager to be scratched.  
Edward chuckled when he found Horatio tugging on his hand. “Now, why didn’t we do this in the first place, hmm?” He leaned over and kissed Horatio on the neck, on the cheek, on the lips.  
“I think your son would have found that a little… irregular.” Hornblower’s words were laboured.  
“Yes, of course,” said Pellew. Then their lips met again; pushing, pressing, pursuing each other until they had to break for breath. “Am I awake?” he gasped.  
“Yes,” Hornblower whispered.  
“I feel like I should be dreaming.”  
Hornblower almost laughed. “I feel… I feel—”  
“—You feel like you want something,” said Pellew, taking hold of him

again.

“Oh…” Hornblower put up no resistance. He lay back and let Edward

pleasure him, with scarcely a thought of reciprocation. Edward could wait; Edward was still half asleep, he told himself, not realising as he writhed and wriggled on the mattress how much pleasure Edward took from watching him. But then he sat upright.  
“What is it?” said Pellew. “Your son’s nightshirt.” “Never mind about that.” “But what will I say?”  
“Do you think he wouldn’t understand?” Hornblower groaned in ecstasy and exasperation.  
“Don’t worry, I’ll be very tidy.” Pellew shuffled down the bed. He kneeled over Horatio and pushed his nightshirt up. Then, holding him by his narrow hips, he took him into his mouth.  
“Edward… oh…” But Hornblower did not protest; he could not. Instead, he buried his fingers into Edward’s loose mane and let himself enjoy the coaxing hot caress.  
He enjoyed it so much that he did not hear the footfall on the landing or the sound of the opening door. Fortunately, Pellew did hear and quickly released his mouthful. “Who’s there?” he barked, while Hornblower lay still and kept quiet.  
“Merrick, sir,” came the voice from behind the curtains.  
“What are you doing?” Pellew snapped. “I asked you not to wake me.” “Just emptying the pot, sir.”

“Very well,” Pellew said curtly. “Shall I open the drapes, sir?”  
“No. And I’ll rise in my own time, thank you Merrick.”  
“Aye sir,” the steward replied. Soon they heard his footsteps retreat from the room.  
“He won’t be back,” said Pellew.  
Hornblower shook his head. “I apologise. It was foolish of me—” “Don’t apologise. I am sorry for the interruption—however, I’ll make  
amends…” Edward licked his lips and leaned once more over his lover’s body. “Oh.” Hornblower swallowed. Merrick’s entrance had doused his fire but  
it soon flared up again.  
Neither man could believe his luck when the door opened for a second time. This time it was Pownoll; they heard his voice before Pellew had a chance to speak. “Pa, I just passed your steward—Pa?” With the bed curtains closed, Pownoll had no way of knowing whether his father was even in the room. In that moment, Hornblower and Pellew were very grateful to whoever invented the canopied bed.  
Pellew sat back on his haunches and showed his face through a chink in the curtains. “What is this, bloody Pall Mall?” he grunted, just as he had growled at Merrick. Pellew knew through long practice that the more stern a man sounded, the less likely others were to question what he said. “I told Merrick I wish to sleep. I have a headache.”  
“Sorry, father,” Pownoll mumbled.  
“Hmph. Why is everyone dashing in here at the crack of dawn? Can’t a man have a moment’s peace? First Hornblower, then Merrick, now you—”  
“I’m sorry, father—I’ll leave you.” Pellew humphed again.  
“I—in fact, I was wondering if you had seen Captain Hornblower,” said Pownoll.  
At those words, Hornblower’s heart began to race. He did not know why Pownoll was looking for him, nor did he understand why Edward had said he had seen him.  
“He blundered in this morning—something about going for a walk before he returns to his ship. I told him I don’t care what he does.”  
“Then—why of course, but—”  
“Hmm? Yes? What?” Pellew sounded so impatient that Hornblower could no longer tell whether his mood was genuine or assumed.  
“I can’t find him, Pa,” said Pownoll. “Only his clothes.” “Oh.”  
To Hornblower, the silence that followed seemed to last forever. For the second time that morning, all he could do was lie on his back like an upturned tortoise and listen to the frantic thrumming of his heart. It seemed inevitable that

Pownoll would discover him there, behind the curtain, and he would be no better off than Polonius.  
But Pellew kept his calm as he replied, “I expect he’s bathing—but, if you see him, you might give him something to wear. I won’t have him getting about here as he does on his gun deck.”  
Pownoll laughed, to Hornblower’s tremendous relief. “Very well,” he said.  
No doubt he had heard about Hornblower’s strange habit of bathing on deck. “Then I’ll see you at breakfast—both of you, hopefully.”  
“Yes,” said Pownoll. “Dressed, hopefully—and I hope your head feels better, Pa.”  
“Thank you,” Pellew said through gritted teeth. When he turned to Hornblower, however, he was smiling. “How did I sound?”  
“Very convincing,” said Hornblower, the words spilling out on a long-held breath. He had just witnessed what it was that made Pellew a great commander: his quick wits.  
“Somehow stimulating, though, don’t you think?” “Much like a firing squad.”  
“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Hornblower.” Pellew arched one eyebrow. “Now, where were we—speaking of firing squads?”  
“No, Edward, we can’t.” Hornblower dragged the bedclothes over himself like a shield; he wished he could shield his ears from Edward’s rather crude sense of humour. “Not now.”  
“No?”  
“No.” Hornblower did not understand how Edward could want to continue; two interruptions had left him too rattled to feel at all aroused. “I’d better get up.” He slipped out of bed, smoothing down his nightshirt and wild hair.  
Pellew pulled the curtains open and lay on one elbow, watching. He knew he could not change Horatio’s mind, now it was made up, and he supposed he was right: they should be more careful. “I suppose I’ll see you downstairs—will I?”  
“Yes, only…” Hornblower looked down at the crumpled nightshirt that was his only attire. “What do I tell Pownoll?”  
“Tell him whatever you like.”  
“But I’m not dressed—and he knows I was here.”  
Sighing, Pellew clambered out of bed and went to the dresser. “Here,” he said, and Hornblower came as obediently as if they had been on the quarterdeck. “Now bend over.”  
“Over the basin?”  
“Do as I say.” Pellew plucked the ribbon from Hornblower’s hair. “What are you doing?”  
“Come now, lean over.”

Hornblower complied, though he had no idea why Edward would want him to lean over a basin with his hair untied, unless he planned to wash it. He had done so, in the past, but this hardly seemed the occasion.  
“That’s right,” said Pellew. Before Hornblower realised what was happening, he had picked up the water pitcher and poured it over his head.  
“My God, what are you doing?” Hornblower blurted. The water was freezing and quite unexpected. What was more, the stream down his neck and his back gave him a wet shirt to worry about besides his state of undress. He turned to Edward with bewildered eyes, but Edward only laughed at him.  
“Tell him you were bathing,” he said almost triumphantly, his dark eyes lapping up the bedraggled young man pouting at him from beneath his damp curls.  
“Damn you.” Hornblower snatched the towel Pellew offered and scrubbed hurriedly at his hair.  
“A clever ploy, don’t you think?”  
Hornblower did not reply; he thought Edward was enjoying himself rather too much, in the circumstances. Not only was he now wet and cold, but Edward seemed to be forgetting that they had nearly been found in flagrante, not once but twice in one morning.  
“Hardly necessary,” Hornblower muttered.  
“Oh, don’t be so ill-tempered. Having deprived me of my breakfast, you might allow me a bit of fun.”  
“Edward!” Hornblower sputtered after three seconds, which was precisely how long it took him to realise what Edward meant. The rest of him may have been cold and wet but his cheeks were red hot.  
“Poor Horatio,” Pellew chuckled. He seemed even more chuffed with himself with every passing minute.  
Hornblower wanted to slap him. “What a vile thing to say,” he announced righteously. Then he cast down the towel and made to leave the room.  
“Horatio—”  
He turned. “Yes?” “Horatio, I jest.”  
“I know,” Hornblower said slowly. He went back and kissed Pellew’s lips. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”


	10. Chapter 10

That afternoon, Hornblower sat alone in his cabin feeling irritable. Before him was a plate of dinner, which he desired not at all after an over-large breakfast, and Martin’s memorandum on the North Head site, for which he had equally little appetite. ‘Engineer satisfied with stability and elevation… site generally suitable for construction of battery…’ Hornblower hardly registered Martin’s words, so uninteresting did they seem; but for the fact that this report referred to the northern headland, Hornblower might have been reading his own report on South Head. He sighed and set it aside. The words ‘stable rock platform’ stirred in him a sense of despair which, while entirely irrational, threatened to turn irritation into desperation.  
It seemed there was no end to the unwanted visitors who had ruined his morning and continued to interrupt him throughout the afternoon: first Merrick and Pownoll, whom Hornblower had hardly looked in the eye at breakfast, then Martin, proffering his report almost the very moment Hornblower came aboard, followed by the steward with his dinner and now Prowse, wanting to land the artillery cannon. They were cluttering up the hold, Prowse said, and with fresh supplies coming aboard, he could not perfect the trim of the ship unless he put them ashore.  
“You will have to do your best, Mr Prowse,” Hornblower said rigidly. If they unloaded those cannon now, they would have to find another way of transporting them when the batteries were ready; it was typical of a sailing master, he told himself, to think only of what was most convenient for himself and his ship without turning his mind to the wider objectives of the fleet. “We will wait until the embrasures are in place. The admiral and I are in agreement.”  
“Aye aye sir,” Prowse grumbled, his lopsided little mouth lurching nearer his left ear as he shambled from the room.  
Terse words to Prowse helped to ease Hornblower’s irritation a little. He would have been even more relieved if he could have given an order stopping all such interruptions and focussed on his work. Bush and Martin were leaving at two bells for some well-deserved time ashore and Hornblower had taken it upon himself to attend to some of the more mundane matters that Bush managed so competently—and, of course, there was Martin’s report. Hornblower sighed and started again at the beginning. It was not long and ought to have taken only a few minutes to read, if he could only concentrate, but somehow North Head

seemed even less interesting than the organisation of the hold. Indeed, when he came to turn the page, Hornblower realised he had not read anything at all. He had run his eyes over the lines without absorbing any of the meaning. Instead he found himself thinking again and again about the harrowing events of that morning. He was frustrated with Pownoll, irritated with Edward and angry at himself—angry and ashamed—yet not even anger or shame could dispel the disappointed desire that had discomforted him for days. The ache was still there, compounding his shame because he could not quite ignore it—but he was determined to ignore it. So he turned back to the first page of the report and read it aloud to himself to ensure that, this time, he understood what Martin had to say. But he had barely begun when he was interrupted yet again. “Come,” he said wearily; it seemed he was destined never to finish the report.  
It was Bush, and very nearly two bells. “Just so you know, sir—Mr Martin and I are going ashore now.”  
“I know,” said Hornblower; “of course,” he added more pleasantly.  
Tempting as it was to vent his bad temper upon his loyal lieutenant, Hornblower checked himself: Bush had served him well over the past several months; he deserved to enjoy his leave without worrying about what he had done to displease his captain, especially since he had done nothing at all.  
“Thank you, sir,” said Bush. Bowing his head slightly, he began to depart, but he paused just short of the door when he saw Hornblower still watching him. “Something else, sir?”  
“No, only... enjoy yourselves, and please thank Mr Martin for his report.”  
Bush laughed. “Very well, sir—though I think he’s thanking you for taking it off his hands.”  
Hornblower smiled faintly. “Good afternoon, Mr Bush.” “Sir.”  
Alone again, Hornblower found that the interruption had done him some good. It had forced him to assume a civil mood, which persisted even after Bush left. He could concentrate again: he quickly finished reading the report and filed it with his other papers pertaining to the battery. He would not look at them again that day, if he could avoid it. Instead he went on deck, just in time to see Hyacinth’s launch pulling towards the public wharf with the two officers and the dozen hands who had been allocated leave.  
Hornblower wondered what Bush and Martin would do ashore: perhaps they would explore the town as he and Edward had done, perhaps they would find a tavern or a bawdy house; it was none of his business but he wondered because he was envious. Annoyed as he was with Edward and himself and the morning’s dangerous farce—that should have been enough to quell his niggling lust—he still dreamed of an evening spent in Edward’s arms, like so many they had spent together on the long voyage, without the governor or his servants or Pownoll around to worry about. The twelve seamen in the launch would have no such concerns when they put ashore, seeking grog and girls to sit in their laps.

He envied them too, Hornblower thought, and scowled at his own vulgarity. Lust was not the same thing as love, he told himself, and began to pace the poop deck. A man might have all the tavern-girls he wanted and never know what it was to be loved; for lovers to serve together—side by side, fighting for their country—was unheard of. Hornblower had not forgotten how lucky he was. He was frustrated, but secrecy and subterfuge and self-restraint were the price to be paid for the love that society and God and law forbade.  
Hornblower looked at the white shape of Government House, knowing that Edward was there; Edward who had tried so hard to satisfy him and wound up pouring a pitcher of water over his head to protect their privacy. Hornblower had snapped then—he had been afraid—but now he began to laugh. There, on the deck of his ship, with the fresh breeze and the bright sun, he could see the funny side. And he knew it would the funny side, not the fear or the frustration, that he would remember in years to come.

“Good evening, Captain,” Walton greeted Hornblower when he arrived aboard Hyacinth for dinner the next day.  
“Good evening, Captain,” Hornblower echoed with a smile. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”  
“Oh, the pleasure is mine! But I must apologise for declining your invitation yesterday. I would have been delighted, but rigging that new mast took longer than I expected. It was nightfall before we got the rake right.”  
“That’s perfectly understandable,” said Hornblower as he led the way to his cabin; he needed no reminder that a captain must put his ship before a dinner engagement.  
“Thank you,” said Walton. “But I think the maintop’s still skew-whiff— might you tell me what you think of it?”  
“Now?” said Hornblower. They had reached the great cabin. Hotspur, moored by the naval dockyard on the western side of Sydney Cove, could not be seen through the stern windows.  
“Whenever you chance to cast your eye our way. Perhaps I’m imagining it—and if that’s the case I take after my mother: she’s always complaining that pictures aren’t hung right.” Walton laughed. “My father says it’s her eyes that are crooked.”  
“She might rig a plumb line alongside,” Hornblower suggested. “Then she would know, one way or the other.”  
Walton laughed again. “A very reasonable suggestion, Hornblower— though I doubt my mother would put faith in anything so arcane as gravity!”  
“In that case, you may have a problem.”  
“She may,” said Walton, “but I have a new mizzen mast.” He was obviously pleased.  
“Which means you need a glass of wine to celebrate.” Even as he spoke, it struck Hornblower that he did not sound like himself: he sounded like Edward

and he continued to remind himself of Edward when he poured two glasses and raised his in a toast. “To Hotspur, restored to her former glory.”  
Walton drank. “Better than that, if I may say so. You left her in impeccable condition, of course, but have you seen the local timbers? I’ll wager they’re better than anything in the Baltic.”  
“I haven’t,” said Hornblower. He and Pellew had walked past the lumber yard but, on casual inspection, one log looked much like another.  
“Well, I’ve never seen a truer mast—and there’s plentiful good timber all around these parts, so Mr Selwyn told me. They’re right: this place is not lacking in resources.”  
“So I hear,” said Hornblower, though he was not quite sure whom Walton meant by ‘they’. Those who thought the colony worthy of three warships, he supposed.  
Walton studied the liquid in his glass for a moment before saying, almost bashfully, “He said it was a fine piece of seamanship, bringing her through the Strait with that jury-mast.”  
“It was,” Hornblower said honestly. Hotspur’s mizzen had shrunken noticeably thanks to the mishap in Bass’ Strait. Her sail area had been reduced and, refitting at sea, it had not been possible to adjust all the shrouds and stays properly. Hornblower had been impressed by how ably Walton kept pace with the other ships, despite the damage and the strong winds gusting sometimes south, sometimes west. “And in the stormy season, at that.”  
“Thank you,” Walton said humbly. “But it was not such a fine piece of seamanship that got her into that state.”  
Hornblower sipped his wine as he considered his reply. It had not occurred to him that Walton—one of the most cheerful men he had met—might still be chastising himself on account of the accident, though he might have guessed: had he lost a spar himself, he probably would have gone to his grave still berating himself. It was Hornblower’s nature never to forgive his own shortcomings, even those he readily forgave in others. “There are some accidents we can’t foresee,” he said measuredly, trying to reassure Walton as he had reassured him at the time. “We can only hope to handle them well.” Once again Hornblower reminded himself of Edward and all the times Edward had made his troubles seem less terrible. “And you did handle it well.”  
“Thank you, Captain,” said Walton. Hornblower could see he genuinely respected his opinion, which was as much a compliment as anything he had said to Walton.  
“And your man,” said Hornblower, “I trust he is recovering well?” “Kelson? Yes, well enough.” Kelson was the quartermaster whose leg was  
crushed beneath the falling spanker boom. “He’s at the hospital. There was no infection, thank God, though the surgeon tells me he’ll be a good inch or two shorter in that leg, once he heals up.”

“Oh dear,” said Hornblower, though he was inclined to count the prognosis as good news, having half expected Walton to tell him the man had died of gangrene. “I suppose he’ll say a crooked picture hangs straight, then.”  
Walton laughed roundly. “I’ll write that to my mother.” Then he stopped laughing. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for poor Shelley.”  
Hornblower frowned.  
“One of my topmen,” Walton explained, looking out at the bright afternoon as he spoke. “He took ill three weeks ago, a sickness in his lungs. I had him in the hospital the first morning and we all hoped… but he died yesterday.”  
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Hornblower.  
“We are but mortal,” Walton sighed. “I hear the Pig lost two marines.” “Syphilis, I believe,” Hornblower said distastefully. He hated unnecessary  
death and, in his view, such deaths were not only unnecessary but avoidable. “I see.”  
Walton seemed embarrassed; for that reason, Hornblower omitted to mention that his own lieutenant of marines was in the military hospital with syphilis or something like it. Hornblower had been embarrassed himself when the surgeon told him. “I have four men in hospital,” he said simply. “All are expected to recover.”  
“That’s excellent news,” said Walton. A moment later, he had drained his glass. “Pardon me, but I was beginning to feel rather morbid.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He generally did not drink quickly but on this occasion he followed his guest’s lead and emptied his glass. “Another?”  
“Please.”  
“Then it will be time for my officers to join us for dinner.”

“Who will have the last of the pork?” said Hornblower, casting his eyes about the table and settling on White, the bulkiest of his dinner guests.  
“Why, I…” White began, but left off his words as the serving dish swiftly made its way to him. “Thank you, sir,” he said with genuine gratitude as he scraped the last of the carved meat onto his plate. The ill-tempered second lieutenant was always more amiable with a plate of food before him, and the food was good. Glossop, who was on the books as Hornblower’s steward, had scarcely set foot in the galley during the four-month voyage—he was more seaman than cook—but the meals he had prepared in the past week, however simple, surpassed many Merrick had made, by virtue of having fresh ingredients to hand.  
“And who will join me in a rubber of Whist?” asked Hornblower, looking around the table—and trying not to look at White, who grasped his fork in a brutish fist as he downed the last scraps of meat.  
“I would be honoured, sir,” said Walton.  
“Gladly, sir,” said White, remembering to cover his mouth only after he  
spoke.

Hornblower’s eye settled next on Prowse. Normally Martin would have played but he and Bush were still ashore, so he extended the invitation to the ship’s master. “Mr Prowse?”  
“No thank you sir, if I may decline.”  
“Of course,” said Hornblower; he had hoped Prowse would not accept, for he was neither a good player nor a good loser. Hornblower turned next to the two midshipmen he had asked to dinner. “Mr Orrock? Mr Clyde?”  
The two young men looked at each other. Clyde deferred to Orrock, who was his superior in years and, Hornblower suspected, in wits. “It would be an honour, sir,” said Orrock.  
“Excellent,” said Hornblower. He had half an idea that if Orrock could win three games of Whist, he would rate him acting lieutenant. Orrock deserved it—and, with Pellew ashore, there was room for another officer. “Glossop,” he called, “the cards.”

Orrock was not as good a card player as Hornblower had hoped—“I’ve always played backgammon or checkers,” he explained—but he learned quickly and, by the time the second game was over, Hornblower had decided his shortcomings stemmed chiefly from inexperience and not from incompetence. Inexperience was easily remedied.  
“Mr Orrock, you led a spade fourth trick. You ought to have followed Mr White’s lead.”  
“Sorry sir,” Orrock said anxiously. Like many men before him, he was unnerved by his captain’s ability to remember the precise position of every card in the game.  
“It is not a matter of apologising, Mr Orrock, it is a matter of improving your technique. Generally, one ought to lead high and play low from a sequence of trumps.”  
“Aye sir,” said Orrock. To his left, Walton wore a sympathetic smile. “Your finesse, on the other hand, was well-calculated. It almost won you  
the game.”  
“My finesse, sir?”  
“When you played your eight of hearts,” Hornblower explained. “You did not know it would take the trick.”  
“No sir.”  
“But it did take the trick. It was a well-calculated risk.” “Thank you sir,” said Orrock.  
Hornblower nodded slightly and dealt. Whether or not he promoted Orrock, he hoped he was right in his assessment of the young man’s card play: with little to do and Edward on shore, a good fourth player might be just as useful to him as a fourth lieutenant.

To his pleasure, Orrock rose to the occasion and won the next hand, but it was the two captains who won the rubber. Hornblower was not displeased with the result.  
“You play an extraordinary game, Hornblower,” Walton told him, when the other officers had said good night and they sat alone in the great cabin. He laughed pleasantly. “Never mind that you gave more thought to Mr Orrock’s hand than your own.”  
“I was testing him,” Hornblower confessed; he supposed he could confess his frivolous ideas to Walton, who was a friend and who had been so forthcoming about his mother’s foibles—and some of his own follies, too.  
“What for?” said Walton, settling further back in his seat. “I’m considering making him acting lieutenant.”  
“Is that the way promotion works on your ship, Hornblower?” Walton grinned. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”  
Walton was not challenging him; nonetheless, Hornblower saw fit to justify himself. “He’s an able officer, quick and well-disciplined. He served with me on Hotspur.”  
Walton nodded. He was slouching in his seat, with one leg slung casually across the other, but his mild brown eyes were trained attentively on Hornblower’s. “And he can finesse well, even if he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” He laughed again. “I suppose it’s no less than Captain Pellew did to— ” Walton broke off when he saw Hornblower frowning.  
“Captain Pellew is a skilled officer,” he said pointedly. He liked Walton’s unstilted attitude but his last comment verged on impertinence and Hornblower stirred instinctively in defence of father and son. He did not add that his commission, too, was owed in great measure to personal favour.  
“I’m sure he is,” Walton hastened to say. “And there’s not an officer in this fleet who isn’t obliged to someone! I too am in his debt; if it weren’t for Admiral Pellew, I’d still be a lieutenant. But he is the admiral’s son, whatever else he is.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower; he was only too aware that Pownoll was Edward’s son. “What do you make of him?”  
“Captain Pellew? I hardly know him. He seems a good sailor, with a good name and handsome too. He’ll do well for himself; better than I can hope to do.”  
Hornblower nodded. He was surprised to hear Walton call Pownoll handsome—he sounded as though he were discussing the young man’s marriage prospects rather than his character—but, now that he thought about it, he did not disagree. Pownoll and Walton were both handsome, in their own ways: Walton rather classically, with his square jaw and straight nose, while Pownoll looked more like his father. It did not cross Hornblower’s mind that he might be more handsome than both.  
“I suppose he seems a little aloof,” Walton went on, “though it’s possible he only seems that way to me, because I can never let alone.” He laughed. “But when I spoke with him this morning he was friendly enough. Quiet, but cordial.”

“This morning?” said Hornblower. Walton had not mentioned seeing Pownoll.  
“Yes, I saw him outside the gaol when I was coming from the dockyard. He was talking to all the wardens, he said, and some of the inmates—all because of that rebellion last year.”  
Hornblower nodded; so Pownoll had begun his investigations.  
“He’s going out west tomorrow,” Walton went on. “That’s where the Government Farms are—he’s to visit them too—but he said he hopes to spend more time dancing than talking to farm hands. Macarthur’s invited them all to dinner.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. His mood plummeted the moment Walton said the word ‘them’, for he could hardly mean the farm hands. That meant Edward and Pownoll were going to Parramatta the next day and that he was not going with them, even though the governor had invited him the day he arrived in the colony. Hornblower was not particularly disappointed—there would be other opportunities to see Parramatta—but he was offended that Edward had not invited him or even told him he was going.  
Walton was puzzled. “You hadn’t heard?” “No.”  
“I’m surprised the admiral didn’t tell you.” “So am I,” Hornblower muttered.  
“An oversight, I’m sure.” Walton was anxious to smooth over the consternation he had caused.  
“I’m sure,” Hornblower said through gritted teeth. In truth he was far from sure.  
For the first time that evening their conversation faltered. Only a few minutes had passed since Hornblower confided his plans for Orrock, but he was no longer in a mood to share his thoughts with anyone and his guest was left to wonder why he had suddenly fallen silent. He did not tell Walton that he resented Pownoll for being always with Edward, that he resented Edward for being always with Pownoll, or that he resented them both for going to Parramatta without him—without so much as a word. While the rational part of him searched for reasons—an oversight or a message gone astray—the feeling part of him could not ignore the possibility that Edward did not want him there. He wished Walton would leave and let him alone to brood—but Walton was his relentlessly cheerful self.  
“I’ve still not finished your Gibbon,” he said. “I went straight to it after dinner that night and practically fell asleep between the pages. Theodoric the Ostrogoth—an unlikely bedfellow! But I’ll keep at it.”  
“Take your time,” said Hornblower. “But, while I think of it, your Aeneid.” He fetched the book from his desk.  
“If you’re done?” Hornblower nodded.

Walton took the neat book with its gold-stamped binding. He flipped it open and read theatrically, “‘Then shall I seek alone the churlish crew, or with my fleet their flying sails pursue?’ ”  
“Dido, Book Four.”  
“Well done, captain! Have you learned the entire thing by heart?” “No,” Hornblower said woodenly—but, in that moment, he could  
commiserate better than he cared to with the jilted queen.  
Walton sensed the time for chat was over. “I ought to leave you in peace,” he said, getting to his feet. “You’ve been most obliging and I a little too indulgent.”  
Hornblower cringed, knowing Walton was apologising as much for his host as for himself. He was a poor friend, Hornblower thought bitterly; no wonder he had so few. “By no means,” he said, despairing at how disingenuous his words sounded. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”  
“No no, I must.” Walton looked at his watch; another charade played out for his benefit, Hornblower supposed.  
“Then good night,” said Hornblower. His conscience pricked him but he would protest no more.  
“Good night indeed.” Walton shook his hand. “And thank you for a most enjoyable evening.”  
Mostly enjoyable, Hornblower thought as the door closed behind his young friend; he had been enjoying himself until one casual comment cast him down into the quagmire of doubt and discontent where he remained long into the sleepless night. Only the mournful bell that marked each half hour interrupted the incessant questions that ran through his head like some wretched fugue. Why was Edward going out west without him? Why was he taking Pownoll instead? And why, for that matter, had he and Edward seen so little of each other since they arrived in Sydney? While they were at sea, he felt they would have spent every minute together, if they only could have. He had never felt so confident nor so comfortable in what he and Edward had as in the last few weeks of that voyage. He had never felt so loved—that was why he had given himself to Edward—but since then they had not slept one night in the same bed. Pownoll had taken his place at Edward’s side, at Government House and now in Parramatta. Was this the way it was to be for the rest of their time in Sydney? He alone on Hyacinth while Edward and his son lived ashore, for month after month after month?  
Hornblower could not bear the thought. He flung himself onto his other side. There must be some reasonable explanation, he told himself. Perhaps Edward had sent a message. Perhaps Pownoll was suspicious of a father who doted more on his flag captain than on his own son. Perhaps he had offended Edward that morning, when he found a jug of water tipped over his head. There might be any number of reasons, Hornblower told himself; perhaps his troubles

were nothing more than an excess of thought. Yet, whatever excuse Edward might offer, it rankled to be left behind.  
Base and ungrateful! Could you hope to fly, and undiscover’d scape a lover's eye?  
Those were Dido’s words to her departing lover; why must he remember them now? But like the queen he was aflame with angry ardour. I love and I hate—who wrote that? Not Virgil; it was Catullus, odi et amo. Hornblower threw himself from the bed. He wanted Edward but he was mad with him—he was mad because he wanted him—and he knew he would never sleep while he felt that way.  
Hornblower went to the day cabin and looked out across the black harbour to Government House. A faint light showed in one of the upstairs windows: Edward’s room, unless he was mistaken; Edward awake and less than half a mile away! But Hornblower could not go to him—not in the middle watch, with his coxswain long abed and no cogent reason for going ashore—and tomorrow Edward would be gone to Parramatta, while he waited with his wretched reports and an ache in his groin he could not ignore, not any more.  
Hornblower hitched up his night shirt and took himself in hand—one hand, two—grasping and stroking as he hadn’t in weeks. There had been no need while Edward was aboard.  
Flesh on flesh; that was what he wanted, never mind that there were no soft words or lusty kisses to accompany it. He could please himself better than Edward could, Hornblower told himself—challenged himself—for Edward could not feel what he felt when he touched himself just there and rubbed not quite too roughly. Sweat beaded on his brow and he wiped it with the palm of his hand.  
Just there, just so—he was as hard as ever—yet his own hands did not satisfy so much as even Edward’s most breathless touch. He was too conscious of his unkissed lips; of the empty air around him, where strong arms should have been. He stepped backwards, as though driven by the dark, until he found himself held, not in Edward’s warm embrace but by barren oak. He pressed himself against the door; even that was preferable to the profound emptiness he felt around him.  
Edward, he thought, turning his head towards Government House, willing his lover to come with one last look—but the light had gone out. Hornblower squeezed his eyes shut. He leaned hard against the door so the mouldings dug into his shoulders. He put his hand to his mouth, lathered it, and stroked himself until the door rattled on its hinges.

Hornblower woke feeling as testy as ever and more than a little seedy. He had hoped that his ministrations would restore his equilibrium but they had merely leant an unpleasant clamminess to his hands and thighs that did nothing to improve his mood. The whole ship seemed somehow clammy; the air sticky and humid: the bed sheets clung and the low clouds of the previous day were falling as drizzly rain.  
Hornblower lumbered out of bed. His head ached—whether from wine or lack of sleep he could not tell—and his limbs seemed slow and heavy. He might

have slept longer, only he felt an urgent need to wash. He went to the day cabin, squinting in the harsh grey light. Damn it, he had stained his nightshirt. He pulled it off and threw it on the cot for his steward to wash—he could make of it what he liked—and pulled on his robe instead.  
Hornblower did not wait for Glossop. He went on deck in his dressing gown and took some men from their morning chores to man the pump.  
“In the rain, sir?” Styles complained, as though it were he and not his captain who was about to bathe. Hornblower replied by casting off his gown and stepping naked under the spray.  
As he turned himself under the pump stream, Hornblower was not aware of the men’s eyes upon him or the winter morning chill that raised gooseflesh all over his body. He was aware only of the keen water slapping his back, his neck, his flank; washing away the sordid legacy of self-abuse. Even his heartache dulled, like the tightness at his temples, and with it the shame of his histrionic rage. He was left feeling numb, inside and out; not so much refreshed as exhausted.  
Glossop appeared from somewhere; Hornblower was grateful for the towel he handed him. He rubbed himself vigorously to bring the blood back to his limbs. Already the men were at work with their mops, drying off the deck. Behind them was the sight of Government House, hazy through the rain, but Hornblower did not stay to look. He returned to his cabin, with Glossop on his heels.  
“Breakfast, sir?” the steward asked.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. His teeth chattered when he spoke; only then did he realise how cold he was. Fortunately Glossop had laid out his clothes and he dressed himself as he waited for his breakfast.  
Glossop returned with a tray. Hornblower drank his coffee and picked over the rest while he watched the rain, falling gently and streaming down the glass. Hyacinth had swung with the backing wind and turning tide so Hornblower found himself looking not at the governor’s domain but at the western side of the quay, where the windmills turned slowly. He was glad; he did not want to see Government House.  
Hornblower watched the rain until he could not tell how long he had been watching. Three bells rang, then four, and not long afterwards he heard some commotion on deck. It was Bush returning, he realised, and soon his first lieutenant appeared at the door with blue eyes bright beneath his sodden hair.  
“Reporting for duty, sir,” he said, more spiritedly than Hornblower had ever heard Bush speak. Evidently he had enjoyed his time on shore.  
“I hope this weather didn’t spoil your leave, Mr Bush.” Hornblower struggled to sound as amiable as Bush and as intimate as they had been a year ago, but Hornblower said ‘Mr Bush’ and Bush said ‘sir’; it did not even occur to Hornblower to say ‘William’.

“It’s no matter, sir,” Bush replied with a husky laugh. “It began only this morning—the first real rain we’ve seen here, sir,” he added, apparently forgetting that Hornblower too recorded the weather in his log each day.  
Bush had a habit of stating the obvious, which Hornblower was in the habit of ignoring without reply. On this morning, however, Hornblower was determined to be friendly, even if that meant talking about the weather. “I suppose it’s refreshing,” he said feebly; in truth he found it depressing.  
“I suppose so, sir.”  
“Mm.” Already Hornblower was faltering. “Did Martin come aboard with

you?’

“Yes sir, and all the hands. No absconders—no trouble at all, sir.”  
“I should hope so,” said Hornblower. The very idea that his crew might

desert irritated him, so he changed the topic again. “Mr Martin missed a fine game of Whist last night.”  
Somehow Bush managed to take his comment the wrong way and his response was to stammer, “I apologise, sir, on his behalf—”  
“—Not at all.” Hornblower allowed a touch of chagrin to slip into his tone. “Mr Orrock made up our fourth. Given time, I think he’ll be a force to reckon with.”  
Bush smiled. “I’ll tell him, sir.”  
Hornblower nodded and made some show of returning to his paperwork, but Bush did not leave. “Yes, Mr Bush?”  
He held out a letter. “For you, sir, from the admiral.”  
Hornblower took it. “Did you see him?” he asked, without lifting his eyes from the folded sheet, addressed in Edward’s familiar hand.  
“No sir, I had it of a messenger, before we shoved off.”  
“Thank you,” Hornblower said shortly. He was keen to have Bush gone so he could read the letter; presumably it would answer the questions that had kept him up half the night.  
“Aye sir.”  
Hornblower began to break the seal, then remembered something. “And Mr Bush—”  
“Yes sir?”  
“Have Mr Orrock report to me in ten minutes.” Hornblower had not forgotten his resolution of the previous night; he may have been miserable himself but it was in his power to make another man very happy.  
“Aye aye sir.”  
Bush left and Hornblower opened the letter. The message was very brief and entirely unilluminating: ‘Kindly report to Government House at your earliest convenience. E.P.’ Hornblower read it again then refolded the note. It had not reassured him at all; quite the contrary. Instead he was left wondering what business awaited him: ‘kindly report’ was tantamount to ‘request and require’, coming from an admiral’s pen. So he was invited ashore but only after Edward

had left, Hornblower thought glumly; Edward probably wanted someone to keep an eye on affairs in Sydney while he was out west. But, bitter as he was, he had to go. He pulled on his tarpaulin coat.  
Hornblower met Orrock on the quarterdeck. “You sent for me, sir?”  
“Ah—yes.” Amid his other concerns, Hornblower had forgotten about Orrock. “Ready the jolly boat,” he said. “I’m going ashore.” Settling his hat more firmly on his head, Hornblower strode past the midshipman. He would have to remain a midshipman, for now.

Hornblower was silent as the boat took him ashore; circumspect as he stalked up the path to Government House. Edward’s note had provided no answers and the same questions still gnawed at his mind. If Edward was displeased with him, why did he not say so? It was not in Edward’s nature to hide his feelings. Or, if he was not displeased, then why did he not say goodbye? The note told him nothing. It was courteous, if cursory, but it did not say a word about Parramatta. To leave without writing was bad but to write and say nothing was worse, Hornblower decided, and almost tripped on the steps as he did.  
He was met at the door by a footman, who had the good sense to ignore the captain’s stumble. He relieved Hornblower of his wet cloak and ushered him into the drawing room.  
“Captain Hornblower!”  
Hornblower blinked. He was startled to see Edward—Edward, who ought to be in Parramatta—bustling towards him with bright eyes and a fond smile.  
Hornblower had expected to see Governor King or, worse still, the Deputy General Surveyor.  
Pellew moved past him and closed the door. “I see you received my note?” “Yes sir,” Hornblower jabbered.  
“Oh, don’t sir me.” Before Hornblower could reply, Pellew took both his hands. “How are you? Have you had your breakfast? There’s coffee coming, I’ve seen to that.”  
“I—” Hornblower floundered, looking at their joined hands. Pellew laughed. “It’s all right, we’re quite alone.” He laid a hand on  
Hornblower’s flank and led him away from the door. “There’s nothing to worry about—except that poor Captain Hornblower seems to have lost his tongue.” He laughed again. “Was it a rough crossing?”  
Pellew was insinuating that the brief boat trip had made him sea-sick; he was only teasing but that was impetus enough for Hornblower to find words. “I thought you’d be half way to Rose Hill by now!” he rattled, reproaching Edward for something he now knew he hadn’t done. Hornblower calmed himself with a slow breath. “Captain Walton told me, and Mr Bush said—” But Bush hadn’t said that and neither had Walton, now he thought about it. Hornblower was

embarrassed to realise that all his anxiety had stemmed from a misunderstanding. He must look a fool—but Pellew only smiled.  
“Then Captain Walton was wrong—and he has poor Captain Hornblower all confused: Captain Pellew is in Rose Hill but I...” He met Hornblower’s eyes and held them fast. “I am here, and quite alone.”  
So Edward had stayed and Pownoll had gone! Hornblower’s heart skipped: the relief he felt after that wretched night was like water in a hot pan; too violent to be quite comforting.  
Pellew could tell he was relieved, even if he did not know just how far Hornblower had misled himself. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve dispensed with my son until Sunday at least—longer, if he does a halfway decent job. I’ve asked him to look in on the farms there, you see: discipline, husbandry—the men and the animals! I doubt the boy knows one end of a cow from the other but I think he can tell if a man’s been treated harshly.”  
Hornblower nodded vaguely. He knew he should be grateful—it was for his sake that Edward had dispensed with Pownoll, as he put it—but he still felt numb.  
“That is, assuming he doesn’t lose the whole week in parties,” Pellew went on. “The governor and his wife have gone as well. They prefer the house there— which is to say that Mrs King prefers it—and they promised all manner of  
dinner-parties to entice me to join them. Yourself as well, of course, and Pownoll, who was all too eager to go. But I hope I was right to give your apologies, and mine.” He leaned in a little. “I’ve an inkling that more important business awaits us here.”  
“I—” Hornblower began and faltered. All he could do was stare, wondering what Edward had in mind.  
Pellew gleaned from Hornblower’s drawn look that he expected some interminable meeting with Meehan and his maps. He could not resist prolonging the suspense. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I have something very important to ask you.”  
“Of course,” Hornblower stammered.  
When Pellew replied, his words were lower, softer, and devoid of frivolous banter. “What would you like to do, my love?”  
Hornblower swallowed involuntarily. He had been so far wrong it was hard to believe what he was hearing.  
Pellew looked a little crestfallen. “Unless, of course—” “—No.”  
“But if you would prefer to go?” “No.”  
“Then whatever is the matter?”  
Hornblower’s lips parted several times before he spoke. “I thought you didn’t want to see me,” he blurted; he did not know how else to explain what now seemed inexplicable. “I thought you didn’t want me to go.”

“I don’t you want you to go, but only because I want you here with me.” Pellew reached out and brushed his lover’s cheek. “Of course I want to see you,” he whispered. “What a ridiculous thing to think—you’re far too clever for that!”  
Pellew gave him a stern look, as though he were a foolish child—and, like a child, Hornblower could only nod. But he felt better for it; it was strange how Edward’s teasing could be so soothing sometimes.  
But Edward was not quite satisfied. “Of course I want to see you,” he said again, tracing the line of Horatio’s jaw; had they been anywhere more private, he would have kissed him on the spot. “I want you with me every minute—and you ought to know that.”  
Hornblower nodded once more.  
“I love you, you know.” Pellew hemmed self-consciously. “Completely and quite incurably, I fear.”  
Hornblower looked into Edward’s deep brown eyes and wondered how he could possibly have doubted his affection. Edward was hopelessly fond—but so was he. “I love you too,” he whispered, and wrapped his arms around Edward’s neck, never mind that they were in the governor’s drawing room; never mind that only a sheer lace curtain covered the near window; never mind that Merrick might come any moment with the coffee. They had endured enough interruptions and enough inhibitions already. That was why he had seen so little of Edward; that was why Pownoll, and not he, had been living at Government House. But for now there was no-one to see them and, as Edward always said, where there was no-one to see there was nothing to fear. He was right, Hornblower thought—to live in fetters was more dangerous than to love carefully—and so he drew Edward close and kissed him as he had wanted to for days.  
When Hornblower released him, Pellew was red-faced. “I, err, I take it you’re happy to stay?”  
“Yes.”  
“And, ah… and what would you care to do? Dinner is at six; until then, the governor’s offered us the use of his horses—and his library, of course.”  
Hornblower looked out the window. Beyond the filmy curtain, the drizzle was still falling. “It’s raining,” he said. “Perhaps we might stay inside today.”  
Pellew looked at him, the remembrance of that kiss still fresh in his cheeks; he flushed more deeply when he saw Hornblower’s smile. “A fine idea,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Who in his right mind would want to go to Parramatta?”


	11. Chapter 11

From then on, Hornblower became a regular guest at Government House while Pownoll became an increasingly frequent visitor to Parramatta.  
“It’s Captain Hornblower,” Mrs King remarked one night when he entered the dining room, not quite on Pellew’s arm but near to it. They had spent the day tiring themselves with a long ride around the harbour to Rose Bay and were looking forward to exhausting themselves completely in Edward’s bed that night.  
“You sound surprised, madam,” said Pellew. She may not have known that Hornblower was at Government House, but she could not have been surprised, given how often he had dined there of late.  
Hornblower was moved to offer an unnecessary apology. “I do hope it is no imposition, ma’am.”  
“Of course not, captain,” Mrs King replied. “It is a delight to have you at our table.” She looked at her husband, who promptly nodded. “We were only speculating as to which of you it would be tonight: yourself or Captain Pellew.”  
Mrs King and her husband had noticed the pattern of comings and goings, dictated primarily by the shortage of accommodation at Government House—or so they thought. Hornblower hoped they had not noticed that, when he came to stay, he seldom slept in the second bedroom, save an hour or two before breakfast to make the bed look lived-in.  
“I think it would be delightful to have the two of you at once,” Mrs King went on. “And poor Captain Walton! Why, I’ve seen his ship in the harbour for weeks now and yet I’ve spoken with him only half a dozen times.”  
Pellew nodded. It was true: Thomas Walton was not his son or his lover, only a promising young lieutenant whom Pellew had seen fit to promote out of the Tonnant. He supposed Walton had been a little neglected over the past few weeks, though Walton, true to character, never complained.  
Mrs King was quick to propose a solution. “Then—and I hope I am not too forward, Sir Edward—I would like to arrange for all your officers to dine here. Do you remember our dinner party, when you had just arrived?”  
Pellew began to nod before she had finished speaking. Mrs King was reminding him of his own wife and her schemes, and he nodded and agreed with whatever was proposed, just as he would at home.  
“I’m sure you all agree it was a delightful evening.”

The three men nodded.  
“Then may I propose an encore next Saturday?”  
“For my part,” said Pellew, “I think it a fine suggestion. I’ll pass word to my officers on the morrow.” He turned to Governor King. “I trust your officers will join in the festivities?”  
“Yes, sir,” said the governor. Hornblower gathered from his tone that he would have preferred certain officers of the New South Wales Corps did not attend.  
“And hopefully we can tempt Captain Pellew to remain in town for the event,” Mrs King added.  
“He does spend a good deal of time out west,” Pellew admitted, “but I assure you he intends no reflection on your house or hospitality.”  
“Of course,” the governor replied. “It is a compliment to our other house.” “But it must be very tiring for him,” said Mrs King. “The last time we  
dined together, he had returned just that afternoon, all the way from Richmond.” “I do believe he is a willing traveller,” said Pellew. He suspected there was  
something besides prisoners and paddocks that kept Pownoll out west, though he did not know what her name was, yet. But he saw no need to pry; Pownoll had not neglected his duties—the four-page report on his desk was proof of that— and Pellew had his own reasons for wanting his son out of town. He looked at Hornblower. With Hornblower by his side, he was happy for Pownoll to tarry in Parramatta as long as he wished. But he made himself look away, lest his hosts should see the hunger in his eyes.

Mrs King’s idea of an officers’ dinner rapidly expanded into a colonial ball.  
Besides Pellew’s officers and their colleagues in the local forces, the most important landholders, clerks and chaplains were all invited to Government House, as well as all the women of Anna King’s not inconsiderable circle, and their daughters too.  
It was the last group that caused the greatest excitement among Hornblower’s men on the afternoon of the ball: most of his officers were unmarried and none of them had seen a lady in several months—a respectable lady, at least—besides Mrs King herself. White and Mr Johnson, a thirty-year- old midshipman, were engaged in the kind of talk that belonged on the lower decks, never mind that White had a wife in England, while Lieutenant Martin stood by, looking embarrassed and saying nothing. Hornblower ignored them: he was past the age of blushing at bawdy talk; he and Edward had done things that would make an old tar balk. Besides which, quite another matter commanded his attention: a message from on shore saying that the Lady Nelson had been sighted by the coastal station and was expected in port that evening.  
“But what news?” Hornblower demanded of the hapless messenger. “None that I know of, sir.”

None worth reporting, Hornblower surmised. It was just possible that the Lady Nelson did have news—news too newsworthy to entrust to a midshipman and a box of signal-flags—yet Hornblower could not avoid the conclusion that there was nothing to report. The French were not at Van Diemen’s Land. That ought to have been good news, he supposed, yet somehow he was disappointed. For weeks now, Hornblower had awaited the Lady Nelson’s return half hoping that something would happen then to disrupt the quiet routine that life in Sydney had become. But the note in his hand suggested the quiet days and nights—not unpleasant in themselves—might continue longer than he cared to imagine.  
The ball went ahead as planned, however. Mrs King’s enthusiasm was undiminished by the news, “Though it is a shame Lieutenant Symons did not get in earlier,” she said, “or he might have joined us”. Nor were the officers discouraged: clearly the possibility that they might have come to Sydney for nothing paled in significance alongside the possibility that they might sit at table with an attractive young woman.  
Hornblower found social niceties trying. As he bowed and shook hands and spoke his salutations, he occupied himself in observing how the elaborate code of English society was reproduced in miniature even in a lowly place like Sydney. There were seemingly innumerable introductions to be made, in an unspoken order of rank, and family lines to be aware of, as if every farmer were a feudal lord.  
“May I introduce Mr James Wilshire and Mrs Esther Wilshire of Lane Cove,” Mrs King said to Hornblower. She had introduced him to a dozen people already; if she insisted on introducing everyone to everyone else personally, Hornblower thought, she would be busy all night. Perhaps for that reason, Mrs King barely left time for Hornblower to say a word before she pressed on, “and Mrs Mary Pitt of Richmond, mother of Mrs Wilshire and Miss Jemima Pitt.”  
Hornblower bowed to Mrs Pitt and her daughter, an attractive girl of perhaps twenty whose slight sun-tan—so uncommon among English ladies— looked fitting rather than a fault.  
“We are honoured, Captain,” said Mrs Pitt.  
“But there are Captain Walton and Captain Pellew,” said Mrs King. “I must introduce you—though I believe you have already met Captain Pellew.”  
Mrs King continued her social circuit, leaving Hornblower in the rather quieter company of Bush and Martin. The three of them stood to one side of the room, content to observe rather than mingle, until Hornblower saw Pellew enter. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, and picked his way through the field of red and blue uniforms to join him.  
“I see I’m late,” said Pellew, “but I just spoke with Mr Selwyn.” “Any word from the Lady Nelson?”  
“Not yet,” Pellew said in a rather clipped tone which revealed that he, like Hornblower, was more interested in news from the south than the social

occasion. But at that moment Mrs King caught sight of him and, leaving half her circle talking with Pownoll and the voluble Walton, hastened over with the Pitts in train.  
“Sir Edward,” she said, “may I introduce you to Mrs Mary Pitt, of Richmond, and her daughter Miss Jemima Pitt.”  
Both women curtsied but it struck Hornblower that neither seemed as impressed by the admiral’s uniform as Mr Selwyn and some of the other local officers had been.  
“These ladies are not without their naval connections, Sir Edward.” Mrs King prompted Mrs Pitt with a pointed look.  
“My cousin Mr George Matcham is Lord Nelson’s brother-in-law, sir,” Mrs Pitt explained. She seemed proud of the connection, Hornblower thought, and no doubt it was a valuable connection to have: his own lack of connections had taught him how important the slightest influence could be. It was entirely possible that a cousin with a brother-in-law in the Admiralty could make the difference between a post-ship and a career as lieutenant; for his own part, the difference had been Edward.  
Pellew was as unawed by Mrs Pitt’s connections as she by his gold braid. “Indeed,” he said. “And are you, by any chance, connected to the Pitts of Westminster?”  
Hornblower winced and looked firmly at his feet. But Mrs Pitt was happily oblivious to Pellew’s feud with the prime minister and simply replied, “No sir. My late husband was Mr Robert Pitt of Dorset. It was after he died that I decided to bring my daughters to New South Wales.”  
“I see,” said Pellew, but while he spoke with the appropriate measure of solemnity, Hornblower suspected he was actually relieved to hear that this humble family of colonial landholders was of no relation to his political enemy. It took him a moment to realise why Edward should be so overly sensitive: the return of the Lady Nelson and the prospect of news—or lack thereof—which might vindicate or vitiate his command.  
“But she has passed the Heads,” Pellew resumed, once the women had moved on. “I expect to meet with her captain this evening.”  
Hornblower nodded. “What are you expecting?”  
Pellew was about to make some cynical reply when he was interrupted again, this time by the governor. “Begging your pardon, Sir Edward, but I have here a number of gentlemen most eager to make your acquaintance.”  
The strange expression on Pellew’s face resolved, with some effort, into a forced smile. “With pleasure,” he said. With a final glance at Hornblower, he followed the governor to discharge his duty to the colony’s graziers.  
“Captain.”  
Hornblower turned; it was Walton, having shed his audience of Pitts and Wilshires and other persons whose names had already slipped Hornblower’s mind. “Captain Walton,” he said pleasantly; the evening was intended as a

chance to move in wider circles, but Hornblower was happier talking to those he knew.  
“I didn’t see you until now,” said Walton. “I hadn’t imagined this place could be so crowded. The green hills look so empty!”  
Hornblower looked around himself. Mrs King had done well; he could barely see the few feet from one side of the drawing room to the other.  
“And I trust you’re well?” Walton asked.  
“Yes, thank you,” said Hornblower. “And yourself, I hope.”  
“Very well,” Walton began; it was his rote response, which he modified, “only listless, I suppose. I’m very glad to be here this evening, rather than there.” He rolled his eyes in the direction of the windows and the harbour beyond.  
“I suppose you’ve heard the Lady Nelson has returned.” “Yes, but no more than that—have you anything further?”  
“No,” Hornblower almost sighed. He was tired of waiting for the news that there was no news.  
“Ah well,” Walton began, then cut himself off. “I only mean, I almost fancy a fight. I know that sounds dreadful.”  
“To the contrary, I think that is just the attitude the Navy and the newspapers are every day trying to foster.” Hornblower knew such sentiment for what it was, though he was not immune to it. He remembered a time when a patriotic speech could swell his heart and move him almost to tears; he still admired Edward’s speeches.  
“Very true, Hornblower,” said Walton. “And our poets, of course: arma virumque cano!”  
Hornblower smiled slightly. “Arma virumque legis, then?” Walton laughed. “Well, I’ve had little else to do.”  
“Mm.” Hornblower felt a pang of conscience on that account: aside from two or three evenings of Whist and a handful of chance meetings on shore, he had hardly seen Walton since the night he returned the Aeneid.  
“I’ve read a little Ovid, too,” said Walton. “The Metamorphoses.” “Anything in particular?” Hornblower wondered why his friend was  
smirking. He followed Walton’s gaze across the room and saw Pownoll sitting with Miss Jemima Pitt.  
“The story of Pygmalion.” Walton laughed. “Though she’s hardly made of ivory, is she.”  
“No,” Hornblower said quietly. He had no interest in picking faults in women.  
“Still…” Walton’s eye lingered on Miss Jemima and her sun-tan. “There’s to be dancing, later. If there’s to be no fighting, I’ll settle for dancing.” Another young woman caught his eye and returned his smile. “Do you dance, Hornblower?”  
“No.”  
“How did I guess?” Walton laughed quietly. “A pity.”

Hornblower did not reply. He had just seen Pownoll place a furtive kiss on Miss Pitt’s hand.

After the table had been cleared and just before the dancing began, the governor’s orderly appeared. He spoke to King and to Pellew, and the three of them left together. Symons must be ashore, Hornblower realised; he wanted to follow, but he had not been asked for and, besides that, there was the matter of how to extricate himself from the conversation in which he and Keogh, Pygmalion’s first lieutenant, had found themselves enveloped. They were with Mrs King, Marsden the parson and a surgeon named Balmain, who between them constituted half the managing committee of the Bridge Street orphanage and who were busily regaling the two naval officers and a handful of ladies with talk of the project.  
“You must find the time to see the orphanage, Mr Keogh,” said Mrs King. “Captain Hornblower has already visited, with the admiral.” She looked at Hornblower, who nodded. He and Pellew had paid a visit some weeks earlier at her insistence. They had both found it a little uncomfortable, Hornblower because he was unused to young girls and Pellew because he had girls of his own, though they were grown women by now.  
“Reverend Marsden would be pleased to show you the place.” “Certainly madam, sir,” said Keogh, managing to look henpecked even  
with his wife half a world away.  
“Captain Pellew was in just this week,” said Marsden.  
“Ah, dear Captain Pellew.” Mrs King smiled fondly as she looked at Pownoll, who was once again talking with Jemima Pitt. They had been together not quite the whole night, but enough to draw attention to themselves. “Still waiting on your sister!” she said to Mrs Wilshire. “I hope we will not see any contention on the dance floor.”  
“Oh no,” said Mrs Wilshire, “Captain Pellew has always been the perfect gentleman.” She spoke as though they had met before and more than once, which was not surprising since it was now clear even to Hornblower that Mrs Wilshire’s sister was the reason Pownoll spent so much time in the west.  
“But where’s he off to now?” said a third woman. The others looked; Pownoll had left Miss Pitt and was picking his way toward the drawing room doors. “Perhaps he’s realised that everyone’s talking!”  
“He knows, to be sure,” said Mrs King, “only he’s too besotted to care, bless him!”  
Hornblower, however, had another theory. “Please excuse me,” he said, and prepared to follow Pownoll. “I suspect I am required.”  
“Not at all,” said Mrs King, who must have known that her husband and the other officers had been waiting all day for news. “You mustn’t let us detain you from important affairs.”

“But perhaps you might enquire after Captain Pellew’s affairs with Miss Jemima,” the other woman interrupted, “if you have the chance, captain.”  
“If not, I’ll have it from my sister,” said Mrs Wilshire.  
Hornblower’s only reply was a harried look as he hastened from the room, abandoning Keogh to the quintet. He was not about to become the minion of gossip-mongers, Hornblower thought, but he did happen to find Pownoll alone, outside the door to the governor’s study.  
“What’s happening?” he asked.  
Pownoll had been listening at the door; he was startled by Hornblower’s voice. “They’re all in there,” he replied. “I can’t hear anything in particular. I suppose there’s nothing to hear.”  
“You’re not going in?”  
“Not just like that—not when he’s in that mood.” By ‘he’, Pownoll meant his father. “I expect we’re not needed, or they’d have called for us.”  
“Yes,” Hornblower said resignedly.  
They waited silently for some minutes, listening to the muted piano music from the drawing room and the indistinct voices from the study.  
“Are you enjoying the evening?” Pownoll asked eventually. “I would be enjoying it more if this matter were resolved.”  
“Yes,” said Pownoll. He was leaning against the wall, his palms on the wainscot. “Though I’ve not let it trouble me too much.”  
Hornblower nodded stiffly and stifled a knowing smile as he thought about Pownoll and Miss Pitt and their gaggle of gossipy observers. But he need not have bothered, for Pownoll wore an easy smile.  
“I know they’re talking,” Pownoll said, as though replying to Hornblower’s unspoken thoughts. “But that’s what I wanted. My father… I tried to tell him about Jemima, but he didn’t want to listen. I hoped that when he saw her… Well, I still hope.” Pownoll glanced coyly at his companion, but Hornblower looked even more self-conscious than he.  
“Your father doesn’t like Miss Pitt?” Hornblower stuttered.  
“I don’t know that he doesn’t like her, but he doesn’t like me liking her.”  
As a marriage prospect, Hornblower supposed; that was all he could mean. “Oh,” he mumbled. He had no idea what to say. He was surprised that Pownoll’s feelings were so serious after at most a few weeks; he was even more surprised that he had chosen to confide in him.  
Pownoll smiled. “You like her, don’t you?” “I’ve scarcely met her.”  
Pownoll’s next words were a little less dreamy. “One doesn’t have to meet a girl to like her, Hornblower! But it’s not just that—not just that.” The agile gesture of one eyebrow, so very like his father, underlined his meaning; evidently Pownoll did not set too great a store on an ivory complexion. “She’s delightful,” he went on, “and such an interesting story—she came out with her mother as free settlers on the Canada, a transport ship. She has a hundred acres in her own right

near Richmond, and the expectation of a good deal more than that—they’re relations of Lord Nelson, you see.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower; Mr Matcham was a useful connection, it seemed.  
“Well, I visited at her mother’s invitation when I was out that way—the first time, that is.” Pownoll arched his brow again and Hornblower nodded awkwardly.  
Some minutes passed. Hornblower was aware of every second.  
“I think I like her more because I’ve displeased my father,” Pownoll said at last. “Though it’s hard to please him these days.” He laughed. “I suppose he was pleased when I learned to hold my knife and fork and count in French—he can’t speak a word, you know.”  
“I see,” Hornblower said again, if anything more awkwardly. Pownoll spoke of a different Edward; an Edward Hornblower had never seen. But even so it was not what Pownoll said that struck him so much as the fact that he said it at all; that the man Hornblower had long thought even more recluse than himself was suddenly sharing his private thoughts as though they were bosom friends.  
Had Pownoll changed, he wondered; had Miss Pitt wrought something in him or was it the wine which brought it all out? Or had he been wrong, Hornblower asked himself; was Pownoll’s elusiveness no more than an illusion? Had he been so daunted by the idea of his lover’s son that he had failed to see Pownoll for what he was: a young man, much like any other young man, who could talk as well as Thomas Walton? Hornblower looked at Pownoll lounging against the wall, watching him with his round dark eyes; those eyes looked different now, quiet and clever and curiously amused, but no more mysterious than that.  
“But I’ll always be a disappointment to him,” said Pownoll. Hornblower frowned. “Why?”  
“Because I’ll never live up to your example.” Pownoll tucked one foot up against the wall. “From the day I entered the Navy, you were the man he wanted me to become. But I never did.”  
“You’re young—”  
“—And so were you, when you cut out the Papillon. See? I know it all like the Kings of England! I suppose you don’t know my mother said a prayer for you, when she read Pa’s letter?”  
“That was good of her,” Hornblower murmured. He did not know how to reply. He was shocked already by Pownoll’s frankness; this was too much at once. “He saved my life, too,” he added with downcast eyes.  
Pownoll seemed not to hear him. “You’re a better sailor than I am,” he said. “That’s the difference between us. He gave you a sloop and you destroyed the French fleet at anchor. He gave me a sloop and I lost her on a reef.”  
Pownoll had been cleared of any wrong doing in the loss of his ship; Hornblower opened his mouth to remind him of that but Pownoll did not let

him speak. He was not seeking reassurance, as some men were when they criticised themselves.  
“Do you remember when my master was ill and we got off course?” “Yes,” said Hornblower.  
“Well, he wasn’t.” Pownoll almost laughed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but he wasn’t ill. We just got off course and I didn’t notice. I’m sure you’ve never done that.”  
“No,” Hornblower admitted.  
“And I shouldn’t have let it happen, but I did, and I didn’t want him to think that I had.”  
So Pownoll had claimed that his sailing master was ill to cover up his own inattention. That was a strange thing to admit voluntarily; Hornblower wondered if it was a bad conscience that made him speak.  
“It doesn’t matter,” said Pownoll. “You’ll always excel me and I know it. That’s why you’re a captain and I’m not—I’ll have only my name to thank if I’m ever posted. But that’s not what I want from life, not solely.” He smiled conspiratorially. “I think a pretty girl could persuade me to give up the sea.”  
Hornblower nodded, but it was an empty action. He could not imagine giving up his career for love, and not merely because his lover was his commanding officer.  
Pownoll seemed to notice his discomfort, for he changed the subject. “Do you know what Mrs King said, the other night?”  
“Hmm?”  
“She asked if we were cousins!” Pownoll evidently found the idea amusing. “Pa was talking about you—he always does—and she said he’s like a father to you.”  
“Oh,” Hornblower swallowed. That Mrs King should have said such a thing was embarrassing enough; that Pownoll, of all people, was repeating it to him now was almost too much for Hornblower to bear. His cheeks were hot and his neckerchief seemed to stifle him.  
Pownoll politely directed his gaze to the painting on the opposite wall, but he could not help smiling at his companion’s discomfort. “I told her that, since you don’t have a father, I don’t mind sharing mine.”  
Hornblower was speechless. He supposed he should be flattered; he supposed he should be relieved that Pownoll and Mrs King and everyone around them interpreted his intimacy with Edward as something paternal. In a way he was, but the thought was unsettling: he couldn’t be Edward’s son and his lover, and he didn’t want to pretend to be one when he was the other. But none of that had anything to do with Pownoll, who had been remarkably generous in accepting him as something like a brother; more accepting, certainly, than he had been of Pownoll. “Thank you,” he said eventually.  
Pownoll smiled again. “It’s all right.” He exchanged one foot for the other. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Perhaps the expedition was more newsworthy than we thought?” Hornblower was relieved to be discussing naval matters.  
“Or else he’s giving someone an earful, though I think we’d hear that.” Pownoll was quiet for a minute. “You won’t tell him about my sailing master, will you?”  
He sounded like a boy, Hornblower thought; a boy with a guilty conscience. Somehow Pownoll had never seemed more human. “No,” Hornblower assured him. He could keep a secret, even from Edward.  
They did not have to wait much longer before the door opened and Governor King emerged, followed by Lieutenant Symons. If King was surprised to find the two captains in the corridor, his surprise did not show in his weary features. “Captain Hornblower, Captain Pellew,” he said, “I do not believe you have met Captain Symons, of the Lady Nelson.”  
“I have,” said Hornblower, “but it is a pleasure to meet again.”  
“The pleasure is mine,” Symons replied, shaking Hornblower’s hand, then Pownoll’s. “I regret I can’t be of greater assistance to you gentlemen,” he added.  
Hornblower looked questioningly at the lieutenant, then at the governor. “There is no news from Hobart Town, besides the regular report,” King  
explained; he seemed relieved.  
“But there was no sign of the missing ship, sir,” said Symons.  
“Not a trace,” the governor echoed, quite unnecessarily. “I fear we must think the worst.”  
“The worst, sir?” said Hornblower. “Lost at sea, captain,” said King.  
The governor excused himself and went with Symons to the drawing room, to join the party. Hornblower and Pownoll did not follow. They were waiting for Pellew. When he did not emerge, Hornblower looked around the open door and saw him sitting at the governor’s desk, reading.  
Pellew looked up, but only fleetingly. “Hornblower,” he said; more an observation than an invitation. “Colonel Patterson’s report,” he added, without prompting. “He’s hoping for fifty lambs in the spring; in the mean time he has given his men muskets with permission to shoot kangaroos.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. In other circumstances he might have laughed at the thought, but he did not laugh now, for he detected bitterness in Edward’s irony.  
“Mm,” Pellew grunted. “Besides that, we have learned nothing—except that I am a yellow admiral.”  
“Sir—” Hornblower began to protest, but he did not see what reassurance he could offer; at least not while Pellew was in such a mood. He had reacted worse than Hornblower could have expected: he saw the news from Van Diemen’s land as proof that there was no French threat at all; that, in posting him to New South Wales, the Admiralty had relegated him to the status of the old, the incompetent and the disgraced, assigned to no particular squadron to rot

on half-pay. He was wrong, Hornblower was sure of it, but he was equally sure that any argument he could muster now would be dismissed as impudence or foolishness. Nor was Pownoll any help; he had come as far as the doorway but he said nothing.  
“What are you two doing here anyway?” Pellew grumbled. “I thought you were at the party?” He looked at Pownoll as he spoke but pre-empted any reply with an ill-tempered sniff. “There’s nothing to do here.” With a grunt, he got to his feet. “Come now, both of you—let’s get back in there.”

“I don’t like Pownoll being so much in Parramatta,” Pellew said, three nights later, as he and Hornblower changed for bed. His son was away for the night and, as usual, they had taken the opportunity to spend it together.  
“Why?” said Hornblower.  
“Because I’m sure he’s in Richmond, getting ideas about that Pitt girl.” Pellew sniffed. “Or God knows what else.”  
Hornblower’s eyebrows lifted as he wondered how many layers of meaning he ought to read in Edward’s last statement. “You dislike her?” he asked, though it was obvious enough, whatever Edward meant.  
“Well, it’s bad enough her being a penniless colonial without being a Pitt as well.”  
Hornblower rolled his eyes. Edward knew as well as he that Jemima Pitt was no relation of the prime minister, yet he persisted in his idiotic fixation on the girl’s name. Even so, Hornblower would not normally have involved himself in the matter, except that his chat with Pownoll had left him sympathetic to Miss Pitt and her suitor. Like Pownoll, he found he liked her more for Edward’s bullish objections. “She seems pleasant enough,” he ventured.  
Now that Hornblower had declared his hand, Pellew faltered. “Well, it’s not her so much as what my wife will say if I let this carry on.”  
“I see,” Hornblower said sceptically. “Then why not forbid him to go to Parramatta?”  
“Because he has work to do,” said Pellew. “Besides which, I can’t afford to.” Pellew looked his lover up and down.  
Hornblower was flustered. He was naked and very aware of his nakedness.  
He snatched his nightshirt from the dresser and pulled it over his head.  
Pellew frowned. “Are you quite all right?” He could not remember the last time Horatio had shied from his attentions.  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He could not tell Edward that it was his moodiness that upset him.  
Pellew touched his elbow. “Then what is the matter?”  
“Nothing,” Hornblower sighed. He forced himself to relax; it was not difficult when Edward looked into his eyes like that. Soon their lips met and he could forget the little frustrations of the last few days. Sometimes the most satisfying part of pleasure was not needing to think.

“You know I wanted to do this on the veranda this afternoon,” Edward whispered, kissing him with his words. “You looked so very beautiful with the sun in your hair and that blessed smile.”  
“I wish you could have,” said Hornblower, wriggling as Edward’s lips drifted over his collarbone. It had been a beautiful afternoon, not quite spring but as balmy as a northern summer.  
“Then let me lay you in my feather bed.”  
Soon they were lying together with the bed curtains drawn and not an inch between their entwined bodies. A wave of something shivered through Hornblower’s body; pleasure and anticipation but also relief, for here was Edward—his Edward, who knew just where to kiss him and how to make him writhe—not some sour old man fussing about his wounded pride.  
“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?” said Pellew, running his hands up and down the younger man’s body.  
“A thousand times.”  
“What about this?” Edward stroked Horatio’s flank and felt all the muscles there tense at the touch. “Did I tell you how beautiful this is?”  
“No,” Hornblower laughed. “Not specifically. But what about you?” He kissed Edward’s forehead. “Did I ever tell you?”  
“Shh!”  
“I mean it,” Hornblower protested. “No, it’s the door.”  
“Oh God.”  
They exchanged an anxious glance and pulled apart.  
“If it’s Merrick, I’ll kill him,” Edward muttered as he got out of bed. “God damn it, I’m sitting up like a maypole!”  
“Then for heaven’s sake be quiet,” Hornblower rasped, tugging the bed curtains closed behind him.  
“Yes?” Pellew snapped as he opened the door. When he saw the governor standing in the corridor, he wished he had employed a modicum more courtesy, but it was King who apologised.  
“I am very sorry to trouble you, Sir Edward, but the wind’s backing and Mr Wesley has decided to leave on the morning tide.” Wesley was the master of an American merchant ship which had spent the past week in Port Jackson. “He’s asked for the mail before he weighs anchor.”  
“I see.” Pellew had not expected the American ship to leave until the following afternoon and, while his personal correspondence was ready and waiting in a canvas packet, his report to the Admiralty lay unfinished on his desk. He had described the progress made in the construction of the batteries, while leaving their location rather vague, in case the letter was intercepted, and he had reported the loss of the missing merchant ship, but he had said nothing as yet of the Lady Nelson’s other reason for visiting Van Diemen’s Land. He had not

wished to spoil his day with Hornblower by dwelling on the matter, but now it had to be done. “May I have a moment?”  
“Of course sir,” said the governor; he seemed painfully embarrassed to have interrupted, even though he had no idea precisely what he was interrupting. “If you have your despatches ready within the half-hour my orderly will take them down to the wharf.”  
“I’m much obliged,” said Pellew.  
The governor apologised once again and said good night. Hornblower took that as his cue to part the curtains. He saw Pellew sit down at his desk and take up pen and ink.  
“Do you have much to write?” he asked. From the bed, he could only see Pellew’s back and the plume of his quill, held motionless in his right hand.  
“Just the one letter to finish, if I can find the words. I shan’t be long.” Hornblower got out of bed and stood by Pellew’s side. “To the  
Admiralty?” he asked.  
“Who else?” said Pellew. At last he put pen to paper: ‘No sign yet of those Concerns in consequence of which I was Sent here. It was an ugly sentence, he thought, but at least it might pass for encoded intelligence rather than encoded impudence, which was what he really intended. Then he signed—not without sarcasm—‘yr h’ble and most ob’t serv’t, Ed. Pellew’, and folded up the letter.  
“All finished?” Hornblower asked as he watched Pellew add his seal; he had not read the letter.  
“It will have to do—my rhetorical talents have deserted me,” said Pellew cynically. But Hornblower did not reply, for there was another knock at the door and he was too busy trying to decide whether he ought to hide himself or remain where he was.  
Pellew made the decision for him. “Stay there,” he said and opened the door. Again he saw Governor King looking sorry for himself and for the admiral he had interrupted for a second time.  
“Sir, I apologise again for disturbing you, but Captain Hornblower is not in his room and—” King fell silent when he saw Hornblower sitting at the admiral’s desk, in his nightshirt, folding a sheet of paper.  
“Captain Hornblower is finalising his despatches now,” Pellew replied unflinchingly. Only Hornblower could detect the nervous edge to his voice.  
“Thank you for informing us, sir,” Hornblower added as he carefully sealed a blank sheet of paper.  
“Very good,” said King. “Then good night Captain Hornblower, Sir Edward. And please accept my apologies, once again.”  
Pellew nodded and Hornblower made himself smile, but the smile slid from his face as soon as the governor had departed. “Why must you persist in opening the door to all comers?” he demanded. He had not forgotten that morning when they were almost discovered in bed together, first by Merrick and then by Pownoll.

“I enjoy a challenge,” Pellew replied defiantly, but when Hornblower continued to glower at him, he added, “besides which, you have every right to be in my study.”  
Edward was half right, Hornblower thought: the room housed his desk as well as his bed. “But not usually at eleven at night.”  
“Why? You might have needed sealing-wax. We might have business to discuss. Any number of great persons conduct public business in their bedrooms, Horatio: kings, emperors—”  
“—And do you consider yourself a king or an emperor?” Despite himself, Hornblower was amused.  
“Of this noble country? Why not?” Pellew laughed, but his laughter sounded hollow. “Hornblower, if I hadn’t opened the door and you were nowhere to be found, then the governor might have cause to suspect something. There’s no sense in making people think you have something to hide.”  
“I suppose you’re right,” Hornblower conceded. The governor would certainly have wondered where he was, if he had hidden.  
“Which reminds me.” Pellew gathered up the letters on his desk. “Do you have yours?”  
“Just my report.” Hornblower fetched it from his coat pocket. “Good,” said Pellew, bundling it with the rest. Then he hesitated. “I  
expect I’ll have a letter from my wife in ten months’ time, asking why Pownoll did not write this mail. Will you excuse me while I add a post-script?”  
“Of course,” said Hornblower. He stood back while Pellew broke the seal and added a few lines at the end of the letter. It ran for three pages, Hornblower noted; he did not stoop to reading over his shoulder but he did wonder what Edward had written in those pages. He could never imagine what Edward wrote to his wife; perhaps he didn’t want to.  
Pellew resealed the letter.  
“Did you mention Miss Pitt?” said Hornblower.  
“No. I expect anything I might write would be out of date by the time the letter reaches England.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. “I’ll take them down then, shall I?” “Thank you—but, Horatio?”  
“Yes?”  
“Don’t forget to come back.” Hornblower smiled. “Of course.”  
He found Whalan in the hallway and handed him the despatches. When he returned, Edward was in bed, leaving room on the left, where Hornblower always slept.  
“Done?” said Pellew.  
Hornblower nodded. He got in bed and lay there in silence, studying the fabric canopy. He was anxious; not afraid but too aware that the door had no lock

and that, at any moment, someone might knock. He could not simply pick up where they had left off.  
“Should I be staying here?” he said quietly. “Why do you ask?”  
“They know how often I’m here. Mrs King asked Pownoll if we were related. I fear someone will notice—”  
“—Horatio, no-one has noticed anything. Like you said, Mrs King assumed a family connection.” Pellew smiled at the thought; if Horatio had not been his lover, he would gladly have had him for a son.  
“But there’s no reason for me to be here.”  
“Are you forgetting that you’re my most senior officer? My friend, damn it? People do have friends, Hornblower. Not to mention that it’s a good deal more comfortable here than in your little cabin.”  
“You forget I’ve been using your cabin—or has being on land spoiled

you?”

“Well, if it has, it might as well spoil you too.”  
When Edward kissed him, Hornblower could feel him growing aroused

again. “Is it me you’re spoiling or yourself?” he said, with forced sauciness.  
Pellew snorted. “I rather thought the bedclothes!”  
They kissed again but their kisses lacked the spontaneity of a quarter-hour earlier. Hornblower did not feel himself glow as he had before and his mind still ran in circles.  
Pellew felt his discomfort. “I promise you,” he said, “I will not open that

door.”

Hornblower sighed and turned onto his side. He could not tell Edward

that he did not want his kisses.  
Edward followed him, wrapping his arm around his waist, still hoping to stir passion back to life. He followed the trail of hair beneath Hornblower’s navel, but even that brought no response. Pellew released him and rolled onto his back.  
“I’m sorry,” Hornblower said quietly.  
Pellew let out a heavy breath. “It’s not that.” He sighed again. “I ought not have written that.”  
“What?”  
“I was impudent to the First Lord. Imprudent, in other words.”  
“I can go after the clerk, if you like,” Hornblower offered wearily. He was tired of hearing about Lord Melville.  
“No need to trouble yourself,” Pellew sniffed. “What’s the worst they can do to me? Send me to New Holland?”  
Hornblower felt his heart sink. He had endured enough of Edward’s tantrums. He tossed the blankets aside and got out of bed.  
“Hornblower? Don’t go. The despatches will be aboard already.” “I’m not going to the wharf,” Hornblower snapped. “I’m going to the  
other room.”

They looked at each other for a moment. “You are, aren’t you.”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“This is the governor’s fault,” Pellew grumbled. “Well, make sure you make a racket going in there. If his skulking is going to take you away from me, I want him to know we’re not sharing a bed. Give the door a good slam!”  
“Good night, Edward,” Hornblower said witheringly. He went to the other room and closed the door, quietly.


	12. Chapter 12

The governor and his wife did not notice anything. They had not noticed that Hornblower and Pellew were sharing a bed and they did not notice when they stopped. If Hornblower seemed to call less often at Government House, that was readily explained by the work on the batteries, which was nearing the point where the guns could be put in position. But it was not the batteries that kept Hornblower away. It was Pellew, who had only grown more testy in the weeks following the Lady Nelson’s return, though he rarely spoke of the slight he felt he had been dealt. He offered no explanation for his short-temper, his sluggishness, or the apathy he now showed to everything and everyone, including Hornblower. Even when they were together, Pellew was at odds with the world.  
“What is it?” said Hornblower. He had stood in the doorway ten minutes and, in that time, Pellew had barely noticed his presence. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly a week.  
Pellew was sitting at the dresser. The small room was swamped in a gloomy grey—it was dusk, but he had not troubled to light the tapers. He caught Hornblower’s eyes in the mirror. Then he looked away again, with a grunt. “That tooth’s aching,” he said eventually.  
“I’m sorry,” Hornblower mumbled. He had come ashore hoping to make amends for his last awkward visit, but his patience was wearing already. The Edward he knew never complained; this one was determined to wallow.  
Some minutes passed in silence while the sky outside grew steadily dimmer. Hornblower could bear it no longer. Edward was dreary enough without standing around in the dingy dark. He took the flint from the dresser and went to light a candle, but Pellew stopped him.  
“Why bother,” he said, staring at his own shadowy reflection. “Grey as a badger, teeth falling out, and half blind already!”  
Pellew laughed bitterly and looked at Hornblower to catch his reaction— but Hornblower had already left the room. Ordinarily, he would have said something reassuring, but it seemed to him now that Edward wanted to be miserable.

They did not speak at dinner. Perhaps now Mrs King did notice that all was not well between her two guests but, like a good hostess, she did not intrude; instead she buoyed up the conversation with her usual cheerful talk.

“The governor and I go to Parramatta tomorrow,” she said as a dish of buttered potatoes made its rounds for the second time. “I suppose we cannot hope for the pleasure of your company?”  
“It would be a pleasure indeed, madam,” Pellew replied, “however my duties detain me here.”  
“Of course,” said Mrs King. It was the usual response to the usual invitation. “And Captain Hornblower,” she said, as she always did, “will you join us, or will the engineers continue to monopolise your company?”  
Hornblower was about to make his apologies when he stopped to think. There was no reason why he could not go to Parramatta. He and Edward had always excused themselves because they cherished the time alone together that the departure of the household afforded. But Hornblower had no present desire to be with Edward and some interest in seeing more of the country—Pownoll had spoken enthusiastically of the farmland, if not the convicts who worked it— and, if Edward chose to come as well, the change of scene could only do him good. Hornblower hoped he would come. “I would be delighted to join you,” he told Mrs King, much to her surprise, but his eyes were fixed on Pellew’s, defying him to change his mind. “If I have the admiral’s permission,” he added pointedly.  
For a moment Pellew looked as though he might capitulate, but he was too proud. Instead he pressed his napkin to his lip and looked the other way as he grunted his assent.

Hornblower rode with the governor and his wife when they set off for Parramatta the next morning. The governor had brought a bundle of official papers to read on the road—land grants, commissarial reports, and all the daily business of the colony—but he fell asleep almost as soon as they left town.  
Hornblower and Mrs King exchanged a look as the governor lolled with his head against the dusty window pane; how he could sleep with the coach shuddering as it was, Hornblower did not know. The Parramatta Road was rather worse than he had expected of the colony’s main thoroughfare—due in part, Mrs King explained, to the poor soil. It was very dusty, as Hornblower discovered when he stuck his head out the window for a breath of fresh air and got a mouthful of grit. He sat down again, coughing, at which the governor stirred and Mrs King laughed before offering him her handkerchief and asking if he was all right.  
“Yes, thank you,” said Hornblower, rubbing his eye. From then on he watched through the window as small farms gave way to broad fields and stands of scrub. The bush had been cleared well back from the road—grazing stock and slab huts had taken the place of tall eucalypts—but on the fringes of the visible, in every direction, was that grey-green forest, reminding Hornblower of what he had felt when he sailed up the south coast: that the colony of New South Wales was no more than a scratch on the surface, a speck of civilisation clinging tenuously to a vast wild continent that could easily swallow it up again.

The landscape was arid but teeming with life: a million unseen insects whirred and chirruped in the dry grass, small birds of yellow, black and green cleared before the noisy coach wheels, and lines of trees marked out the lie of hidden creeks. They had just passed the halfway houses when a kangaroo fled across the road, beating up a cloud of dust with its powerful tail. In all the weeks he had been in Sydney, Hornblower had never seen the kangaroo in full flight; he could not help but point it out to his companions, though he supposed the sight was as commonplace as a seagull in Spithead.  
The governor opened one eye. “Quite the most remarkable animals,” he mumbled, and drifted off again.

They crossed Duck River. An oxen-driver pulled his team aside to let the governor pass. Beyond was a field flecked with Spanish merino sheep.  
“Elizabeth Farm,” said Mrs King.  
Hornblower looked, but he could not see the homestead from the road; Elizabeth Farm extended over three hundred acres, and that was only a tiny part of John Macarthur’s land holdings. But it meant they were nearly at Parramatta. Soon the landscape changed from wide fields to smaller farms, then the road turned north and Hornblower saw the rows of cottages, barracks and small buildings that lined the way to the governor’s residence, on a hill overlooking the river. To Hornblower’s inexpert eye, it might have been a replica of the house in Sydney Cove: a modest building of two storeys, freshly white-washed, lacking only the colonnade and (Mrs King pointed out) the pediment above the door.  
The similarity was readily explained: “It was built for Governor Hunter by James Bloodsworth, who designed the house in Sydney.  
“I see,” Hornblower said patiently.  
“We have added some slight improvements,” Mrs King went on.  
“Not to mention the garden,” said her husband; evidently he was not quite

asleep.

“Oh yes,” said Mrs King, with a hint of pride; Hornblower had heard her

speak of the garden before. “And, of course, the botanical nursery, where we grow all manner of plants for the Royal Gardens. Perhaps, after luncheon, you would like to see it?”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. His interest in horticulture was as limited as his interest architecture, but he supposed he had no choice.  
Pownoll met them in the hallway. He was surprised to see Hornblower, who was almost as surprised to see him: Pownoll visited Parramatta often, but it had not occurred to Hornblower that they would be staying in the same house.  
“Captain Hornblower—is the admiral with you?” “No,” Hornblower replied laconically.  
“He has his duties,” Mrs King explained. “Though I do wish we could persuade him—even an admiral deserves a holiday, does he not?”

“I’m sure, ma’am,” said Pownoll, “but he won’t take orders from me.” He glanced at Hornblower as he spoke, but Hornblower’s eyes were fast on the chequered oil-cloth. Edward would not take orders from him, either.

Pownoll came to the door of Hornblower’s room as he was unpacking. “So she persuaded you at last—or was it him, the grumpy old bore?” Hornblower frowned. “The governor?”  
Pownoll rolled his eyes. “My father.”  
“I have intended to visit for some time.” Hornblower spoke guardedly, but he was keen to learn Pownoll’s complaint.  
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed,” he said, “but I can’t bear it! Bitter and bad- tempered and not a gracious word to say about the most delightful young lady—” Pownoll stopped himself. “Pardon me. I oughtn’t talk about our admiral.”  
“I won’t mention it.” “Then you agree?”  
Hornblower flinched. Pownoll ought not to talk and still less should he— but it was reassuring to learn he felt the same way.  
“Of course you can’t say it,” said Pownoll, “but you must see how disappointed he is.”  
“He feels there’s nothing to do here,” Hornblower sighed.  
“So he resents it. He resents the Admiralty—but he’s a fool, if you ask me. What other man was handed so great a territory, without a soul for thousands of miles to countermand his orders? There may not be any treasure ships, but there’s a whole continent to be explored! Who knows what treasures it might hold? I, for one, could live here quite easily.”  
Infatuation made him biased, but there was a core of truth in what Pownoll said. Even if Edward was right, in exiling him the Admiralty had handed him an opportunity some men only dreamed of. Like Pownoll, Hornblower had fancied himself and Edward explorers in a new world. The journey was their Odyssey, their Aeneid. Ever since Edward asked him to be his flag captain he had looked forward to the months they would spend together— together more than they had ever been—and, for a time, they had found paradise. But the Lady Nelson had brought a serpent, and Edward no longer had any interest in exploring beyond the front door of Government House; it seemed he no longer had any interest in Hornblower. He turned his face to the wall. He was angry—and he was heart-broken.

That afternoon Hornblower walked into Parramatta. A few solid buildings clung to the main street, anonymous in their lime-wash; even the church—reckoned the finest structure in the colony—was a humble affair without decoration or spires. Instead the eye was drawn to the stocks that marked the town centre; a warning to any transport who disobeyed orders. But while

Parramatta contained no marvels, Hornblower was glad of the exercise, the fresh air and the solitude after the cramped quarters of a carriage.  
He turned down a side-street and followed it to the jetty. There was a passenger boat moored there, the river lapping gently at its weathered hull. It was barely more than a raft, yet it struck Hornblower as a more pleasant way of travelling to Sydney than hours in a rattly coach. He would return by boat, he decided; river transport had always interested him and he would see more of the landscape that way than he could from the road. But for now the sun was sinking, the shadows stretching, and he would soon he expected at dinner. So Hornblower turned back into the domain and up the hill towards the governor’s house.  
He found Pownoll and the governor in the drawing-room, taking a glass of port before dinner.  
“Do join us, captain,” said King. “You’ve just time for a tipple.” “Thank you,” said Hornblower. He took off his coat and hat and sat on  
the edge of the settee; Pownoll and King had the two arm-chairs. “Did you enjoy your walk?” said Pownoll, passing him a glass. “Yes, thank you.”  
“The King,” said the governor, raising his glass. They all drank. “Now, I must confess we were talking about you, captain. Yes indeed—you must be sure to see the countryside while you’re here. The journey to Richmond Hill is always worthwhile, as Captain Pellew will tell you, or there’s a place we call Jerusalem, about six miles from here, very popular with picnic parties. The stream is well suited to bathing, in warm weather, and you’re almost certain to see the natives who live in the caves there.”  
“I would like to see the place, sir.”  
“Then shall we go tomorrow?” said Pownoll.  
“You might ride,” said King, “or take the chaise, though—how could I forget?—you must be home for dinner, for you’re invited to Elizabeth Farm tomorrow night.”  
“Mrs Macarthur’s card came while you were in town,” Pownoll explained. “We’re all going.”  
Hornblower looked from one to the other, marvelling that an entire day had been planned for him in less than a minute. “It would be a pleasure,” he replied. It seemed he had no choice.

It rained all the next day. A quick shake of the head confirmed that he and Pownoll would not go sight-seeing. Hornblower was relieved: he was a poor rider and the thought of spending a whole day with Pownoll—just the two of them— was almost as daunting. But, as the hours crawled by, he began to wish he had gone riding, rain or shine. He barely left his bedroom that morning: he was not in the mood to make conversation and the rain streaming down the window better suited his spirits than the cosy drawing-room, where Mrs King sewed and

Pownoll played Solitaire. Their voices—the occasional laughter, a few airs on the pianoforte—were only irritants to Hornblower. It was as though Edward had infected him with his ill-humour—but he was no longer angry. He wondered what Edward was doing back in Sydney—perhaps just what he was doing, sitting alone in his gloomy little room, watching the rain fall. He wondered if they would have been happier together, for neither of them was happy now.  
His mind turned in guilty circles. Edward was not happy—that was why he behaved so badly—but, instead of trying to help him, he had grown angry and flounced off to Parramatta. Edward deserved better, Hornblower told himself.  
Infuriating as he had been, these past few weeks, Edward was the only man he was himself with, the only man who understood him, the only man who loved him. He might dine with Bush or ride with Pownoll or pass a few pleasant hours with Captain Walton—he might call them friends—but none of them could replace what he shared with Edward. It transcended friendship and transgressed the law; it was as improbable as it was precious. Hornblower watched the million drops rushing by his window. What were the odds of any two drops meeting?  
What were the odds of he and Edward finding each other? He had been blessed, he told himself, and such a blessing deserved patience, tolerance, understanding. He must help Edward, in his unhappiness, for—however maddening he might have been—Edward had made him happier than he ever hoped to be. He must, Hornblower resolved; he only wished he knew how.

Hornblower went downstairs for luncheon, and afterwards the sky cleared long enough for Mrs King to show him the gardens. They walked about the kitchen garden and the flower beds, laid out with meticulous geometry and steaming after the rain. “Oh, my poor wallflowers!” said Mrs King, seeing the bedraggled blooms. Then, with muddy boots, they went to the botanical nursery, where thirty different kinds of indigenous plant grew in earthenware pots. She told him the names of them—boronias and orchids and a bristly thing called the grass tree—while Hornblower nodded and made little reply. He was preoccupied: he had left Sydney to get away from Edward but he could not stop thinking about him.  
“Captain Hornblower?”  
They had come to a dull little shrub which Mrs King pronounced “The most splendid to be found in New South Wales.”  
Hornblower peered at the thick stems and prickly leaves. “Is it medicinal?” he asked, wondering idly whether some plant might cure Edward’s black bile.  
“Not that we know of,” Mrs King laughed. “We prize it for its flowers— great crimson flowers the size of a man’s fist. But there is a plant called the hop bush which the natives use for tooth-ache. Captain King insisted on trying it and reported it most effective but thoroughly unpleasant—a remedy worse than the disease, indeed!”

“I fear that is often the case, ma’am,” said Hornblower. He was thinking of Edward—but Edward’s complaint was far more complex than a tooth-ache.

That evening was the Macarthurs’ dinner. John Macarthur had arrived in New South Wales as an inconsequential young officer and rapidly transformed himself into the richest man in the colony. A rebellious temperament had earned reprimands from two governors but his wool exports had impressed Lord Camden, who had confirmed him in a virtual monopoly of prime grazing land. Ever since he arrived in New South Wales, Hornblower had heard talk of Macarthur, himself returned from England just a month earlier. More than once he had imagined the man and his vast holdings at Parramatta. But, seeing Elizabeth Farm for the first time, Hornblower saw nothing to interest him. The gardens were no grander than Mrs King’s, the house little more than a cottage, and only the trappings marked its owner as the colony’s richest man. Mrs King whispered something about velvet and China silk, but Hornblower cared little for drapes and napery.  
He was quiet at dinner—or as quiet as he could be with Mrs Macarthur and her guests keen for tales of adventure on the high seas. He was obliged to talk of Brest and Samana Bay and even Cape St Vincent, though he had not been there, and to explain that he came from Kent and that he was not married and that he had never served with Admiral Nelson, though these things were well- known already. He was glad when the ladies retired and the port was passed and the gentlemen were left to talk. Hornblower knew nothing of farming or the price of wool; at last he could observe in silence or lose himself in his own thoughts.  
Pownoll and the governor he knew, Marsden and Dr Harris he had met before, and the stocky fellow at the end of the table said almost as little as Hornblower until the talk turned to horse husbandry, but John Macarthur struck Hornblower as a proof of physiognomy: not unhandsome, he had a hard, almost haughty countenance that seemed to confirm everything one heard about his character. He was respectful to the two young captains but treated King with a thin veil of courtesy. “Then let us call him governor as well as commander-in- chief!,” he declared, when King explained that the admiral’s duties had once again detained him in Sydney. King made no reply and busied himself with his port. But Macarthur had only praise for Pellew: “The Navy’s greatest captain.  
Everyone remembers Pellew and his frigate.”  
The other men nodded, Hornblower among them.  
“We read about it,” said Macarthur. “Something worth reading about— what was the French ship?” He looked at Pownoll.  
“The Droits de L’Homme.”  
Macarthur nodded blithely; he barely listened to the answer. “What a shame they sent him here,” he declared, looking particularly at the governor. “It won’t make him the Navy’s greatest admiral.”

Pownoll left Elizabeth Farm with a bottle of Macarthur’s brandy for his father and an invitation to visit whenever he could spare the time. Hornblower might have wondered what Macarthur hoped to gain by such flattery but he was preoccupied by what he had said: the Navy’s greatest captain. Hornblower disliked the grazier but on that point they agreed. The man who had captured Cléopâtre and Le Droits de L’Homme and terrorised the French for ten years was wasted on a remote colony with a remote chance of invasion. But Macarthur thought no less of him for it, he thought no less of him for it, and he wished Edward would not make himself less useful than he needed to be; less happy than he deserved to be. Pownoll was at least half right: Edward should not see his command as a prison sentence—it could be a unique opportunity if only he would embrace it.  
By the time he stepped out of the carriage, Hornblower had made up his mind: the cure might be painful, but something had to be done.  
Mrs King yawned and excused herself; the governor went to his gout stool. Pownoll lingered on the porch, looking at the night sky. Hornblower stopped beside him. He reminded him of Edward, with the moonlight in his eyes.  
“The stars are out,” said Pownoll. “If it’s clear tomorrow, shall we ride?” “I’m afraid I can’t.”  
“You can’t? Oh, you mean—you’re not leaving already? Why, you’ve hardly seen anything!”  
“I must return another time.”  
“What is it, then? I suppose the French are on the doorstep?” “No,” said Hornblower. “But I left the battery—”  
“Could it not wait one day?”  
Hornblower smiled apologetically. “Having hounded the engineers, I don’t wish to be the cause of delay.”  
Pownoll seemed sceptical but he attempted no further persuasion. “Then you must return soon—and, when you do, why not see if you can convince my father?”  
“I will,” said Hornblower.  
They looked at each other for a moment, then Pownoll shook his hand. “Good night, Hornblower.”  
“Good night.”  
Hornblower went to bed wondering exactly what he would do when he reached Sydney and whether Pownoll guessed the true reason for his return.

The heavy thirty-two-pounder rose out of the ship’s hold as gracefully as Venus from the foaming sea. The system of wood and hemp raising it was a piece of artistry few landsmen would appreciate but, to Hornblower, it rivalled any work of art. A greater challenge awaited, however: to deliver the gun to its designated resting-place, high on North Head. That would be achieved by means

of sturdy sheer-legs mounted deep in the rock above; by strong cables and the brute strength of the convict teams even now disembarking from the government barge.  
The South Head battery had been armed a week earlier. The cliff there overhung a rock platform that was exposed at low tides, so it was a relatively simple matter to land the gun and hoist it directly up the face of the headland. Hornblower and Bush had done much the same at Samana Bay; the cliffs were higher and the gun heavier but those were simple problems solved by heavier cables and more men. The greatest problem was the unstable sea between the heads, which tended to drive ships onto the southern shore, but Hornblower overcame that too by lashing barrels and sacking to the launch and securing it with a deep-water anchor.  
North Head presented a slightly different challenge. There the headland rose higher and the shore beneath was an unstable accretion of rock shed from the cliff face. It was impossible to land a heavy cannon on that surface, nor could a boat come in close enough to sway it up directly. Instead Hyacinth had anchored three-quarters of a mile west of the battery site, where the cliffs were not so high and a slight bay enabled the launch to bring the gun inshore. Once it had been hoisted, it could be dragged along the grassy headland to its final position; Hornblower had wanted to use horses, but they were too hard to transport, and he had agreed to use men instead. As Bush remarked, they had the added advantage of understanding English.  
The gun was now being lowered into the waiting launch, with Bush overseeing from the waist. “You men—heave—easy now—avast hauling!” he called. “Now let her down.” This was perhaps the most delicate part of the operation: if the load were lowered too quickly or if the sling slipped, several tons of iron would plunge straight through the bottom of the launch; they would lose the gun and possibly lives as well. But Hornblower could think of no better man than Bush to oversee the work, and it was a mark of his confidence that he turned away with the gun still pendent.  
“Almost poetic, don’t you think, sir?”  
Pellew merely grunted. He had come aboard only after much persuasion and now he was determined to seem uninterested. “But I can’t fault the work.”  
“Thank you,” Hornblower sighed. He had returned from Parramatta anxious to help but it appeared he had achieved nothing at all: Edward seemed determined to take no pride, no interest in anything. Hornblower did not understand. The Pellew he knew was sufficiently self-assured to discount anyone who discounted him. A political setback was just that: something to be angry about but not an indictment on his whole life and career; not until now. There had been moments of melancholy and many bitter things said of Lord Melville, but Pellew had seemed to enjoy the voyage and on St Helena he had not scrupled to use the situation to his advantage. Hornblower did not know why he had reacted so badly to the news from Van Diemen’s Land. They had not expected to

find the French there; the island was but a diversion in the defence of Port Jackson. That was their mission—yet, even as he saw the batteries completed, Pellew acted as though he had been defeated.  
When Hornblower looked at the parapet high on North Head and its counterpart to the south, already armed, he was proud of what they had achieved in the space of a few months. He had hoped Edward would feel the same way, when he saw the work with his own eyes. But the expedition only seemed to have the opposite effect; to remind him that Hyacinth’s guns lay idle while he conquered an inert cliff. Hornblower paced the length of the quarterdeck, glancing occasionally at the gun hanging above the waiting launch; occasionally at the incurious figure standing by the railing. Clearly his strategy was not working. He needed a new plan: if he could not interest Edward in his duties, he would distract him from them.  
Hornblower waited until the gun was secure in the launch then went below to make preparations. When he returned he found Pellew precisely where he had left him, staring at his shoe buckles or perhaps the grain of the deck.  
“It seems that Mr Bush has everything under control, sir.” He gestured at the boat, now half way to shore.  
Again Pellew grunted, but Hornblower was not deterred.  
“In that case, sir, we may take our leave—with your permission, of course.” “Leave, captain?” Pellew raised an eyebrow. “I thought you wished to  
observe the operation.”  
“I see no need to get under Mr Bush’s feet.” It was difficult for Hornblower to feign indifference, but at least he had caught Pellew’s attention. “In fact, sir, I request your attendance ashore.”  
Pellew scowled. “If you mean up there, let me assure you of my complete confidence in the engineers—”  
“—No,” said Hornblower. “Not the batteries.”  
“What, then?” Natural curiosity built behind Pellew’s carefully composed frown until he guessed Hornblower’s game. “You’re not going to tell me, are you.”  
“No, sir.” Hornblower almost smiled. “Then we’d better go and see, hadn’t we?”  
“Yes sir—and we had better row ourselves, if that is acceptable to you.” Pellew looked at him for a long time before replying, “Very well, Captain  
Hornblower.”

ready.

The coxswain was surprised by his captain’s request but soon the boat was

“Shall we be away, then?” said Pellew, still striving to sound disgruntled,

despite his every inclination.  
Hornblower glanced at the companion way that led to the great cabin. “I’m waiting on my steward.”

“I see,” said Pellew. Either he did not expect Hornblower to enlighten him or he did not wish to spoil the surprise. At any rate, Glossop soon appeared with a wicker basket over his arm.  
“There’s ham and bread and everything you asked for, sir,” Glossop explained hastily, “and tinder and oakum for the fire—only I didn’t have time to cook the eggs, sir.”  
“It’s all right, we’ll cook them ourselves.”  
Hornblower took the basket and climbed into the boat. “What’s that?” said Pellew, sitting opposite him.  
“A pick-nick.”  
“Hornblower, I…” Pellew did not finish his sentence. Hornblower hoped he was touched.  
“But you’re not to eat it till we land,” he said. “Now, give me a hand with those oars—if you would, sir?”  
Hornblower’s impertinence only improved Pellew’s mood. “Aye aye, captain,” he replied good-humouredly.  
Hornblower smiled to himself. It seemed his scheme was working. “Starboard,” he said. “Now pull for the next point.”  
Their destination was almost two miles from where Hyacinth lay at anchor, around the rocky promontory that divided the inner head from the area known as Manly. It was mid-October—it must have been eighty degrees—and he and Pellew soon worked up a sweat.  
“Midships, midships!” Hornblower called as they rounded the rocky point. Hornblower braced his oar to help the boat through the turn. It was not the most elegant manoeuvre ever executed—it had been some time since either man had rowed; some years in Pellew’s case—but they had to go alone and Hornblower supposed the exercise would do them good. Pellew seemed to have benefited by it already, if only because he was too busy rowing to remember to act aloof.  
Unwittingly, he found himself making a game of it.  
“Where are we headed, captain?” he asked Hornblower.  
“Around the next bay, it’s too rocky here. It can only be a hundred yards

now.”

Hornblower was right, and soon they saw what he was looking for: a

sandy beach, only three hundred yards across, surrounded by bush and sheltered from the breeze. The boat glided over sea-grass beds, waving in the gentle wash, and ran ashore on a miniature breaker. Hornblower jumped overboard to haul the boat up the yellow sand; the cool water was actually pleasant in his hot black boots.  
Pellew followed him and gave the boat a final heave, to be sure it would not drift away. Then he looked around himself, as though he had stumbled on some undiscovered paradise; as though he were seeing yellow sand and green bush for the first time. Hornblower wondered how he could have lived on these shores without seeing their beauty. But now Pellew was exploring, up to the

high-tide mark where shells and driftwood and dried weed made a garland along the shore, to the soft sand above which squeaked as he walked, and the fringes of bush, ringing with insects, that caressed the beach or threatened to reclaim it.  
“What—what?” A green parrot swooped from above and swung around Pellew’s head, screeching like a cat. “Hornblower, did you see that?”  
“It’s spring. It’s probably defending its nest.”  
“Oh.” Pellew addressed the tree where the bird had come from. “I apologise for disturbing you.”  
Hornblower laughed; he wanted to kiss Edward then and there, but he stopped himself. If he did, they might spend a pleasant afternoon together, but like as not one glimpse of the batteries or one mention of Van Diemen’s land would plunge Edward back into his damned sulks. Hornblower wanted a more permanent change. He was determined to talk.  
“What is this place?” Pellew asked. “Are we alone here?” There were black places in the sand where fires had burned.  
“I think so,” said Hornblower. “The ruckus on the headland will have scared them away.”  
“Who?”  
“The natives.”  
“You do know Captain Phillip was speared not far from here?” “But he wasn’t killed.”  
“A tremendous comfort that is!” Pellew shook his head. “Hornblower, what are we doing here?”  
“We’re having a pick-nick. Mr Selwyn told me it’s quite safe—the natives are more afraid of us than we are of them—but I can scout, if you like.”  
“No, no. I don’t want you getting speared.” “We’ll keep to the beach, then.”  
Hornblower fetched the basket from the boat and together they set about building a fire.  
“We need more kindling,” said Pellew. “I’ll find some driftwood.”  
Meanwhile Pellew unpacked the picnic basket. “Cheese, biscuits, ham… and wine, too. Very thoughtful.”  
“Be careful, the eggs are raw.” Hornblower returned with an armful of

sticks.

“Rowing ourselves? Cooking our own dinner?” Pellew opened the wine

while Hornblower built up the fire. “I’ll bet every man aboard that ship thinks you’ve gone mad.”  
“Both of us, I expect.” As soon as he spoke, Hornblower worried he had said too much. “Is there a pan for the eggs?” he added hastily.  
Pellew passed it to him.  
“Sometimes it’s refreshing to do things for oneself.”

“That depends,” said Pellew. He had spilled wine on his breeches and was attempting to blot it with his handkerchief. Laundry was not a task he would choose to do himself.  
“It’s nice to do something.” Hornblower cracked an egg into the pan. “I fear we’ve both let ourselves become too idle.”  
Pellew looked at him for a long moment, as if he knew that by ‘we’ Hornblower really meant ‘you’. “Shall we have a toast?” he asked, by way of changing the topic.  
“Of course.” But Hornblower was not easily deterred. “To victory.” Pellew snorted.  
“Very well. To the safety of His Majesty’s possessions—” “Enough, Hornblower.”  
For a moment even the insects seemed to be silenced.  
Hornblower laid the pan aside. “Look about yourself,” he said. “Is this place so bad?”  
“It is, when one expects to be in Bombay.”  
“Doing what? Escorting convoys and bickering with the East India Company?”  
“There are twenty-seven ships on the East India station—”  
“—And they too are waiting for a French fleet which may never arrive.” “But if it does, where is it more likely to be? In the Bay of Bengal or in  
this horse pond?”  
“There are probabilities and there are possibilities,” said Hornblower. “Both must be guarded against, and this place could be just as important—”  
“I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you believe it.”  
Hornblower sighed. “Suppose… suppose the French did take control here.  
Port Jackson could control shipping in three oceans.” He was exaggerating, but not entirely. “They already have Mauritius and Java. Then India would be important—it would be cut off. With so many ports closed to us, surely you appreciate the possibility—”  
“—So you’ve bought in to Melville’s talk, have you?”  
“And Banks’, and the trading companies’, and Governor King’s.” “Hornblower, if Port Jackson were that important they’d have sent more  
than a couple of sloops to defend it. The truth is there’s nothing to do here.” “Nothing except make yourself miserable?”  
Pellew’s eyes narrowed. “Horatio—”  
“—By not doing anything, taking no interest in anything except martyring yourself to some sort of… some imagined…” Hornblower could hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth. He had hoped to talk rationally, not start a shouting match, but it was too late now. “To whatever you thought you’d be doing!” he finished, flustered.  
“Something,” Pellew growled. “The reason I do not do anything, as you put it, is there is nothing to do.”

“We don’t know that,” Hornblower protested, speaking faster than he could think. “We don’t know it would be any different in the Bay of Bengal, or anywhere. On the Indy, remember, we rotted in Gibraltar for weeks—six miles from Algeciras and we rotted at anchor! And last year the Channel storms raged for months. You weren’t doing anything then and you were more pleasant about it than you are now!”  
“But I expected—”  
“Did you? In the Channel?” The Tonnant had scarcely left port in Pellew’s two years as commander-in-chief. “The attack on Breast went wrong. You never even expected to come under fire.”  
“No,” Pellew admitted, after a pause. “But I am an admiral now, Horatio.”  
Hornblower had talked himself breathless without saying any of the things he had planned to say; without even knowing what he was saying. Now he fell silent. Suddenly Edward made sense. Suddenly Hornblower realised that the seeds of unhappiness had been sewn long before Sydney was even spoken of.  
Pellew was a born leader and a born fighter, quick to seize opportunities and turn them to his advantage through cunning, skill, and strength of character. Those qualities had made him one of the greatest frigate captains England had ever known—perhaps the greatest—until inevitably he had been promoted. That was the life-cycle of the naval officer. But Hornblower too had known command and he knew that broad braid on his cuffs and a white flag at the mizzen could never compensate for the loss of it—for the command of his own ship. It was little wonder, then, that Edward was discontent—but he might have been discontent anywhere. Pitt may have taken the East India command from him, but it was promotion that had taken Pellew away from the life he had lived for almost forty years.  
The problem was clearer but harder to solve. ‘I’m beginning to regret it myself,’ Edward had said when he received his promotion; it was clear that he did regret it, but what could anyone possibly say? Then he remembered Pownoll’s words in the bedroom at Parramatta. He clutched at them, for he had none of his own.  
“Perhaps you’re better off here.”  
“How so?” Pellew was not incensed this time but incredulous. “Better than in the East Indies? I could have cleaned out the Dutch. I could have attacked Mauritius. I could have made a difference—and a little prize-money, damn it!”  
“And you could have suffered the caprice of every merchant in the Indian Ocean, not to mention the heat and disease—”  
“—I’d suffer a poxy ague if I could make difference, in India or anywhere!” “Where else, then? In the Channel, playing with paper ships? Or in the  
Med, on endless blockade?”  
“The Mediterranean most of all. Napoleon wants Europe, Horatio, not a distant island full of damned criminals. I thought you knew that.”  
“Napoleon wants the world—”

“—But he’s not going to get it if he’s bottled up in Brest.”  
“And is that what you want? To be another rear admiral on blockade duties? The other Pellew in Cornwallis’ grand fleet?” That was unfair: he meant Israel Pellew, captain of the Conqueror, and very much the other Pellew to his elder brother. But Edward was not offended.  
“I envy him,” he admitted. “I would gladly trade my flag for what he has.” “But you can’t,” said Hornblower. “Because you’re an admiral now. In the  
Channel, you might as well have hoisted your flag at the George for all the action you saw—  
“—The fleet was beleaguered, Horatio. No-one could predict that.” “And no-one can predict if Linois will attack India or if the fleet will  
escape Brest—but at least here there’s no-one breathing down your neck while you wait.” Hornblower no longer knew whether he believed his own words, but he kept talking. “You were born to be a frigate captain—to freedom and initiative, that’s what I always admired. There’s no freedom in the Downs squadron—”  
“—But I would be fighting Napoleon—”  
“—And here you can be Napoleon!” Hornblower sent sand flying. “There’s no-one for thousands of miles who can question your authority. You can make more of a difference here than you ever could in the East Indies.”  
“How, precisely? Declare myself emperor and attack New Zealand?” Hornblower winced. “By fortifying the harbour, reorganising the army,  
making them work with the governor—that’s what you wanted to do when we arrived, isn’t it?”  
“Yes,” said Pellew.  
“Then do it. Then go home, go to India, or anywhere you can get, knowing you have fulfilled your orders and served your king.”  
Pellew sniffed. “I had no intention of doing anything else.”  
“Then take command.” Hornblower dropped onto his hands and knees, so their faces were very near. “Take command. Make it yours.”  
Pellew blinked. Hornblower was ranting like never before; his wild eyes demanded an answer but he could only whisper, “There’s nothing here, Horatio.”  
“I’m here.”  
Their gazes locked. Hornblower’s hands trembled and Pellew’s chest heaved; they were both overwrought. Then something snapped like a spring in an overwound clock. They fell at each other; grappling, grabbing. Suddenly Hornblower was on top of Pellew, pinning him down so he did not know whether the young man meant to attack him or ravish him. With his heart pounding and his head spinning, Hornblower hardly knew himself until his lips met Pellew’s. They kissed violently, as if they meant to choke each other, while rough hands snatched at shoulders and dragged off jackets. They did not care if they bruised ribs or crushed lips; they did not even notice as they collided with all the pent-up tension of past minutes and past months. They had been waiting

longer than either of them realised to have their fight, and perhaps they were still fighting now. They were hard against each other, tearing at each other, scattering sand in an explosion of angry love. Pellew ripped off Hornblower’s neckerchief, tore open his buttons and set upon the exposed skin with a ferocious hot suction. Hornblower yelped and went limp long enough for Pellew to roll him over, but then he seized Pellew by his pigtail and claimed his mouth in another furious kiss.  
“You know I could have you hanged for speaking that way to a superior officer,” Pellew rattled between ragged breaths.  
“And I could have you hanged for fucking me.” Hornblower stopped any debate with a smothering kiss. “Do it,” he whispered between their barely-parted lips. Then he rolled Edward onto his back. “Take me.”  
Pellew opened his mouth to protest but Hornblower, on hands and knees over him, left no doubt of what he wanted and no choice but to oblige.  
He popped Pellew’s placket and dragged down his own trousers. “Take me,” he breathed; he did not wait for a reply. He lowered himself over Pellew’s hips. He hardly knew what he was doing yet somehow he knew exactly what to do, with the same calm and clarity that came to him before a battle, just when he expected to panic. He planted his hands on Pellew’s chest and brought himself down; his breath was forced out as his lover filled him. A shiver ran up his spine, then a shudder when he squeezed. Pellew felt it too; he moaned, digging his fingers into the younger man’s sides and grinding sand into his smooth white skin. Hornblower squeezed again, compressing him, caressing him from everywhere at once.  
“My God,” Pellew groaned with an involuntary thrust; Hornblower clenched and caught it like a ball. He began to rock, back and forth, so Edward’s length stroked him from the inside. Something struck a chord and soon Hornblower was thrusting up towards the blue spring sky. He took one hand from Pellew’s shoulder to touch himself instead; Pellew did not fail to notice and took him in hand. He thrust harder then, Hornblower squeezed harder, and soon it was the young man’s turn to moan. He threw his head back, gulping air while the sweat trickled down his back, not caring what they were doing or where they were if it felt like that. He was too aroused to be ashamed and too crazed to be afraid that someone would find them there, making love upon the sand.  
“Heavens,” Pellew gasped, “Horatio.” Then Hornblower pulled him up, wrapping long legs around Edward’s trunk. Pellew could barely move like that, so Hornblower moved in his lap, rubbing himself against Edward’s stomach. It could not have been more different to what they had done in Government House, Hornblower thought—or would have thought, had he been in any state to think. He, too, was overwhelmed. He lay down and Edward followed him, pressing him into a fresh patch of sand, pressing into him with new energy.  
Edward was taking him, taking control, taking command—just as, minutes before, Hornblower had controlled him. That was what he wanted; perhaps that

was what he had hoped for when they came ashore. It was ecstasy to lie back and let Edward work into him. No, there was nothing yellow about Admiral Pellew.  
They were reaching a crescendo; had to, as their bodies ached with pleasure and effort. There were tremors in Hornblower’s thighs, in his buttocks, and whatever those muscles were, deep down. His guts had turned to jelly but somehow he kept meeting, squeezing, acceding to Edward’s every beat until the final cadence came, hot and wet, between their bellies and within him.  
Pellew rolled aside and did not move again for some time. They were both flattened, without even the energy to kiss or hold or caress each other; not needing that reassurance, for their bodies had agreed as never before—bodies as much in love as their minds. Hornblower felt no fear as he lay on his back, half- buried in the sand, letting Edward’s seed run out of him and wondering if he would ever catch his breath.  
They listened to the foaming sea fizzing on the beach as the rising tide crept higher, and at last they heard the noisy green parrot nattering in his tree behind them. A gentle breeze blew inshore and dried the sweat on their skin, and the vibrant sun kept them warm, though not so warm as they were within.  
“My God,” Pellew said at last; it seemed to be all he could to say, though God had nothing to do with what they had just done. “How did you learn to do that?”  
Hornblower opened his eyes; he had been asleep, or near to it. “I didn’t  
learn anything,” he said. Had he been less tired, he would have been furious.  
“I don’t mean that,” Pellew amended. “I mean… I mean…” he shook his head. “I mean, I love you.”  
Smiling, Hornblower rolled onto his side and brushed the sand from one shoulder. “You’re not going to hang me, then?”  
“No,” Pellew sighed. “But you’ve every reason to dispatch me.” Hornblower frowned. “Edward, we both wanted—”  
“No, not that.” For once there was no confusion and no regret. “I mean me, the way I’ve acted these past weeks.”  
“Edward…” It was ironic how, having forced a confrontation, Hornblower found himself wanting to retract everything he had said.  
“No,” Pellew interrupted. “You were right: I’m not happy, but one cannot always be happy and that is no reason to make others suffer.”  
Hornblower nodded.  
“You’re not going to convince me that this mission was justified,” said Pellew. “I’d not be surprised to learn that map was the work of British cartographers, if you take my meaning.”  
Hornblower nodded again.  
“But I see now that I behaved badly, and that I did not do justice to you or to my duty.”

“Or yourself.” Hornblower took his hand. “Edward, even if this mission is a sham—and we don’t know it is—then that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with politics.”  
“Do you think I don’t know that?”  
“No, but I think you’ve forgotten—otherwise, you’d not have let it torment you.” Hornblower smiled faintly. “Since when have you ever had any respect for men who disagree with you?”  
Pellew had to laugh. “Except for you.”  
“And I respect you.” He squeezed Pellew’s hand. “Then I ought to be content.”  
They were quiet for some time. “More than anything, Horatio.” “Sorry?”  
“I love you. More than any command they could possibly give me.” Hornblower was almost winded by those words.  
Pellew smiled as he watched him. “But for God’s sake don’t tell Lord Melville that, or he’ll make you an admiral and send you to the moon!”


	13. Chapter 13

Three days later, a party under Lieutenant Martin making final adjustments to the gun-mountings on South Head sighted a twenty-five-foot ship’s boat rowing along the coast with nine men aboard. Martin intercepted the boat in the government cutter and escorted the crew to Sydney Cove, where Hornblower and Pellew came to meet them. “British, sir,” said Martin, ending the speculation which had raged all morning. “Master McRae of the Hare, sir.”  
“Good God,” Pellew breathed. The Hare was the merchant ship reported missing the day Pellew’s fleet arrived in the colony. A second later he saw her master—a dirty, wiry man whose long beard and tattered clothes told of months in a ship’s boat.  
“May I introduce Admiral Pellew,” said Martin. “And Captain Hornblower.”  
“Sir.” McRae made two sinewy salutes. “An’ my crew, sir.” Behind him were the other survivors, ragged and mahogany brown. There was a boy amongst them; but for his unbearded face he looked like an old man  
“Welcome, sir,” said Pellew.  
“I’m glad to be here, sir.” McRae’s words were a sigh of relief. He had been waiting a long time to say them.

Pellew offered McRae and his crew the chance to eat, wash and change their clothes before they said what they had to say, but McRae asked only for water, and suggested they might speak right away.  
“If you don’t mind my lookin’ as I do, sir.” “Not at all,” said Pellew. He was eager to hear.  
Pellew, King, Walton and Hornblower assembled in the governor’s study and McRae told his story.  
“We were in the Strait, sir, lost our tops’ls in a squall and went onto the lee shore—wrecked, sir, just east o’ Port Phillip. She were all splintered, sir, and ‘alf my crew with ‘er. So we took the boats an’ put in to Port Phillip, hopin’ to fetch help a’ the township there, sir. But when we got there, the town was gone.”  
“Oh dear,” said King. On his orders, Lieutenant Collins had removed the Port Phillip settlement to Van Diemen’s Land the previous year.  
McRae looked at King, then Pellew. “So we tried to make Sydney, sir. It took weeks, sir, with the winter storms ragin’. We lost three more men before we

cleared the Strait, an’ another not long after. But we kept goin’. It weren’t so bad in the Pacific—we could catch fish an’ find streams. That were how we found the ship, sir.”  
“The ship?” said Pellew.  
“The Frenchie, sir,” said McRae.  
“You saw a French ship?” Pellew was almost shouting; Hornblower was on the edge of his seat.  
“Yessir,” McRae replied with a gap-toothed grin. It evidently gave him pleasure to see three naval officers hanging on his every word. “We were in a bay, lookin’ for fresh water when we saw ‘er. We thought we were saved, sir—it were the only ship we’d seen for months—but when we went closer, Monkey thought ‘e saw something strange about ‘er.”  
“What was that?” said Pellew.  
“She were a French frigate, sir!” McRae finished, with a flourish. Pellew’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”  
“Monkey was in the Navy before, sir. He’d seen one just like her—‘less you’ve got a thirty-six-gun frigate somewhere south of ‘ere?”  
“No,” said Pellew; King shook his head gravely. There was no thirty-six- gun frigate in New South Wales—not under British flag, at least. “Might it have been an Indiaman you saw?” Pellew asked. Indiamen were painted to look like fighting ships; it was possible that a big Indiaman could be mistaken for a thirty- six-gun frigate.  
“She weren’t no Indiaman, sir,” said McRae, almost apologetically.  
Pellew stared at Hornblower. Had he been a superstitious man, he might have accused him of conjuring a French frigate to justify what he had said on the beach. But Hornblower was just as shocked as he was.  
“What did you do then?” he asked.  
“Some of the men wanted to hail her anyway, ask for food an’ shelter— we’d had nothin’ but fish for weeks, sir—but I knew we ‘ad to get word here.” McRae glanced at Pellew, who nodded stiffly. “So we hid. We found an inlet an rowed upstream for ‘alf a mile ‘til we were out of sight. We waited there ‘til dark, sir, an’ then we pulled for our lives, sir. We rowed all night, knowin’ we ‘ad to get word ‘ere, sir—get word to the gov’nor, do our bit for King and country.” Only when McRae winked did his audience realise the deliberate play-on-words. Then he added, more soberly, “That’s what kept us goin’, sir, when we was fit to drop.”  
Pellew nodded again. “You did the right thing.” “Thankee, sir.”  
Hornblower folded his hands on the table; it took conscious effort to conceal his excitement. “Where were you when you saw the French ship?”  
“In a bay, sir, just south o’ Jervie’s Bay. I could show you on a chart, sir.” “Please,” said Pellew.  
King sent his orderly to fetch a chart.

“And what was she doing there?” said Hornblower. “Where was she headed?”  
“She were hove-to, sir, at the north end o’ the bay. Can’t rightly say what she was doin’ there, sir—we didn’t stick around to look. We slipped ‘er in the night and didn’t see ‘er again. But I reckon she must’ve gone south or else she’d be ‘ere by now. It were weeks ago we saw ‘er—but let me show ye.” Whalan had returned with a large chart of the coast of New South Wales. McRae unrolled it and took the pencil offered. He chewed his thumbnail for a moment, then made a firm ‘X’ on the map. “There,” he said confidently. The place he had marked was a south-facing bay just west of Cape St George—just a few days’ sail from Sydney, if the wind were favourable.  
They talked for half an hour. King explained that Robertson and the rest of the convoy had left port in July, but promised to do everything he could to help McRae and his men get home or ratings in His Majesty’s ships, if they so chose. McRae had told his tale with relish—never before had he felt so important—but he grew quieter as his initial excitement passed and harsh reality sunk in: he had lost his ship, his cargo, and most of his men.  
Pellew sensed his distress and ended the meeting. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr McRae.”  
“I’m glad to be ‘elpful, sir.”  
“Now, perhaps you would like to bathe?” King asked. “I’d like that very much sir.”  
“Whalan will show you,” said King. “A French frigate on our coast!” he added when the door closed.  
Pellew shook his head slowly. “I never would have thought…”  
Hornblower supposed that was the closest Pellew would ever come to admitting he had been wrong—it was not like him to admit anything, if he could reasonably avoid it. Hornblower smiled to himself; it was a relief to see the Edward he knew and loved emerge from behind his black cloud. Their tête-à- tête on the beach had helped and McRae’s news was more than he could have hoped for—provided, of course, that they captured the French frigate.  
Hornblower had to remind himself it was real.  
Pellew studied the map. When he looked up, he spoke decisively. “Captain Walton, Captain Hornblower, can you be ready to sail this afternoon?”  
“Yes sir,” Walton said keenly. Having had nothing besides drills and commissary bills to occupy him for three months, the prospect of action was tantalising.  
“Yes sir,” said Hornblower. Some of his men were still on shore leave, but he could sail without them if they could not be found in time. “Our orders, sir?”  
“Sail down the coast. Find that ship and capture her if you can.” “Aye aye, sir,” said Walton.

“Sail as far as Bass’ Strait. We know the Lady Nelson missed her, so you will be twice as vigilant. If you can’t find her this side of King’s Island, report back immediately. Hornblower, you will be in general command.”  
“Aye sir.”  
“As for Pygmalion,” said Pellew, “she will remain on station here, but I will recall her captain immediately.” He looked at King. “Might I ask that you send an officer to find Captain Pellew?”  
“Of course, sir,” said King. “You should have him by this evening.”  
“I think we all know where he is,” said Pellew, evidently displeased. “But that need not concern you gentlemen—kindly return to your ships and make ready to sail on the ebb.”  
“Aye sir,” said Walton. “Aye sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Hornblower,” Pellew called him back, before he had reached the door. “Yes sir?”  
Pellew looked into Hornblower’s eyes. “I wish you a safe voyage,” he said quietly; with King and Walton present, there was no other way he could say goodbye.  
“Thank you sir.” “And, Hornblower—” “—Yes sir?”  
“You may wish to take the chart.” Hornblower smiled. “Of course.”  
Pellew passed it to him. Their hands brushed as he took it.

Hotspur and Hyacinth reached Cape Banks by nightfall. Three days later the two ships were off Shoals Haven and, by that evening, ten miles north of Jervis’ Bay. They were just a few hours’ sail from where McRae had seen the French frigate, but they had found nothing but miles of coastline, just as vacant and just as wild as when they arrived in July.  
“Take us closer in,” Hornblower said as they approached what looked like an inlet. It was not marked on the map, but any small bay or river mouth might potentially harbour a French frigate.  
“Aye sir,” Prowse answered.  
It was a slow and painstaking process, inspecting every cove and creek; dropping anchor at sunset to ensure no enemy ship escaped their eyes overnight. Hornblower could not say how long it might take to check the entire coast, and even then there was no guarantee they would find the French frigate.  
“Looks like an inland lake, sir,” Bush said as Hyacinth stood in. “Estuarine, maybe. You wouldn’t get a frigate in there unless you dug a channel first.”  
“Thank you, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said brusquely. What he had identified as a potential bay was now quite clearly a tidal lake, divided from the

sea by a narrow sand bar. Further south was Jervis’ Bay, separated from the lake by a mile or so of scrubby lowland. Bush was quite right but Hornblower did not like being told he was wrong—however insignificantly—when he had already realised his own mistake. “Onwards, if you please.”  
“Aye sir,” said Prowse, and the two ships continued south.  
At the end of the bight was another bay, but before Hyacinth had come much further Hornblower could see that it, too, was empty. Beyond lay the tall sandstone cliffs that sheltered Jervis’ Bay. Hornblower had hoped to reach the bay by nightfall. “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said. “Take us around the headland, Mr Prowse.”  
“Aye sir,” Prowse replied, but he clearly had reservations. “Is there a problem, Master Prowse?”  
“With this wind, sir, we might not clear the peninsula before dark, and I wouldn’t want to be off those cliffs overnight.”  
Hornblower nodded slightly, inviting Prowse to continue.  
“I think we’d do best to anchor in that smaller bay overnight and wait for morning. It’s a safe harbour, sir; protected.”  
Hornblower looked at the master, then at the bay, then at the sun, by now very low in the west. “Very well,” he said. “Mr Prowse, prepare to drop anchor.  
Mr Sommers, signal Hotspur.”

“More wine, Mr Bush?” Hornblower said that evening as they sat alone in the great cabin.  
“Thank you sir.” Bush cupped his glass in both hands but did not drink. “Mr Bush?”  
“Sir, I want to apologise.”  
“What for?” Hornblower was puzzled; he smiled as he frowned. “This afternoon,” Bush explained hesitantly. “I spoke out of line—about the lake.”  
“Not at all,” said Hornblower. He had long since forgotten his earlier irritation; indeed he took a moment to realise what Bush was talking about. Hornblower was more concerned by the fact that Bush felt the need to apologise. They had just spent a pleasant evening together—as friends, Hornblower had thought—so he was disappointed to see Bush slipping back into First Lieutenant.  
But Bush persisted. “I wouldn’t presume to correct you, sir,” he said. “Only I noticed myself, and—”  
“—And I hope you will continue to notice and suggest.” Hornblower smiled. “Why waste a moment?”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
Hornblower set down his glass. “Mr Bush… William…”  
“Yes sir?” Bush seemed startled at the sound of his given name. Hornblower sighed. “It is I who should apologise.”  
“Sir?”

“I could not wish for a better first lieutenant.” “I… Thank you—”  
“—I only wish I had been a better friend.”  
Bush blinked. “Sir, I don’t know what you mean.”  
“I mean that…” Hornblower began, but he did not know how to explain. Bush sounded completely sincere; was it possible, Hornblower wondered, that he had not felt the distance between them? Or that was he so conscious of rank and title that he could not conceive of a friendship between captain and lieutenant?  
But, if that was so, how did he understand the very close friendship between admiral and captain? He could not have failed to notice; Hornblower was sure Bush thought more than he ever said  
“I mean I miss our days in Portsmouth together,” Hornblower finished. “On half pay, sir, and without your coat?” Bush did not need to remind  
Hornblower that those were not the happiest times; that he had found Hornblower without a ship and grieving deeply for a dear friend.  
“And on the Hotspur,” Hornblower said wistfully. “There are many things I do not miss, William, but I do miss the times we spent together.” Hornblower blushed at his own sentiment. “Times like this.”  
“Thank you, sir. Me too, sir.” If Bush had been capable of blushing, he would have blushed too. Instead he raised his glass in a toast. “To friendship.”  
“To friendship,” Hornblower echoed, and they both drank. With anyone else, it might have been mawkish, but with Bush he knew that the gesture was genuine. “Here,” he added quickly, refilling both their glasses.  
“Thank you, Hornblower.”  
They talked until the decanter was empty; until Bush forgot to call Hornblower ‘sir’ and talk came naturally. That was what Hornblower wanted and, not having talked properly for so long, they had plenty to talk about.  
“I meant to tell you about Styles,” Bush said.  
“What’s he done this time?” Hornblower was smiling; he knew what affection underlay Bush and Styles’ sparring.  
“Since we’ve been here, he’s chanced to renew an old acquaintance.”  
Hornblower was not entirely surprised. “What is he? A cattle thief? Shop stealer?”  
“Not a he. A she.” Bush laughed. “She may be a cattle thief, I couldn’t

say.”

“And he told you this?”  
“After a fashion. I saw him ashore—thought I’d caught him making

trouble with the transports. He soon put me right: he introduced me to a Miss Mary Green, formerly of Southsea, and her daughter.”  
“Her daughter?” Hornblower blinked. “His daughter?” “I believe that was the implication.”  
“Did he know?”  
“I couldn’t say—but I’d guess the child was two years old.”

Hornblower shook his head slowly. “I’m not surprised—except by the coincidence.”  
“I thought you would like to know.”  
Hornblower nodded thoughtfully. He wondered how Styles felt. From what Bush had said he was happy; he wondered whether Styles would want to stay with his family, now he had found them. Hornblower thought of the twelve years Styles had served him; in that time he had transformed from a trouble- maker into one of his most loyal officers. It would be a shame to lose him, but when Hornblower asked himself what he would say if Styles asked to stay behind, he found himself thinking about Edward, and what a precious thing it was for lovers to be together. As pleased as he was to be at sea, in pursuit of the enemy, in that moment he wished he was back in Sydney. McRae’s news had given Edward new life and he wished he was there to hear the fervour in his voice; see the fire in his eyes. But then he thought of the French frigate, perhaps not far away, and he thought of Bush—eternally patient Bush—waiting quietly for his captain to reply. They had been talking about Styles, he remembered— they had been talking at last—and now he had stopped talking, to think of Edward. “My apologies,” he said.  
“Not at all, sir.”  
‘Sir’ again, Hornblower noted. It saddened him that Edward’s presence had hurt his friendship with Bush; it saddened him to think he could never explain why. “Perhaps we should call it a night,” he said instead, “if we’re to be hunting our French frigate at dawn.”  
“Of course.” Bush was already on his feet; almost at the door. “Good night, William—and thank you, for a pleasant evening.” “Good night, sir.”

Hornblower woke and dressed the next morning to the sounds of the men chanting and the capstan creaking as Hyacinth’s heavy anchor was hauled out of the sandy bottom. By the time he arrived on deck, the anchor was stowed, and by the time the sun had risen high enough to see by, the ship was ready to set sail.  
Lieutenant Martin, officer of the watch, had timed everything perfectly. “Good morning, Mr Martin,” Hornblower greeted him, his eyes hinting  
at his satisfaction with the morning’s work.  
Martin nodded. “Wind’s nor’-east, captain.”  
Prowse joined them. “We’ll have to beat-up out of the bay, but it’s set fair to gain the point, sir.”  
“Very good,” said Hornblower. “Make sail immediately.”  
As the sun climbed higher, the two ships worked their way around the rocky peninsula which separated the cove where they had anchored from Jervis’ Bay. They were very near now to the area where McRae had seen the French frigate. Hornblower crept in close enough that not even a ships’ boat could escape his notice, but all he could see was the cliff face.

“Point Perpendicular, sir,” Prowse announced as the cliffs reached an end. “Have a look into the bay, sir?”  
Hornblower did not reply immediately. He had read in Bass’ papers of a cove on the inside of the peninsula, where there was a source of fresh water. It showed as only the slightest wobble on the chart, between Point Perpendicular and Long Nose Point, but Hornblower would inspect it anyway. He turned to Sommers. “Have Hotspur round the point and look into the bay on the starboard side.” By now he could rely on Sommers to devise the most efficient way of forming a signal. Then he addressed Prowse. “Take us across the mouth of the bay. We can’t see the eastern side on this approach.”  
“Aye sir,” said Prowse.  
As they reached Point Perpendicular the two ships diverged, Hotspur looking for the small cove while Hornblower sought a vantage point between the two headlands. Jervis’ Bay was approximately ten miles across, with sheltered coves on the north side. Hornblower hoped to inspect it without entering the bay itself. With the wind blowing steadily from the north-east, it might take all day to circumnavigate and get out again, and Hornblower was very much aware that he had the whole south-east coastline to cover. There was another reason, too: if, by chance, the French frigate was still in the area, Hornblower did not want to be caught in the bay with the weather gauge against him. The entrance was just two miles across; narrow enough to give a single frigate a fair chance of trapping two ships inside.  
Before Hyacinth had come very far south, Hotspur signalled.  
“A small bay, sir,” Sommers reported. “A mile wide… nothing there, sir.” “Very well,” said Hornblower. “Tell her to stand out and look around the  
eastern side.”  
“Aye sir.”  
Hotspur continued west another hundred fathoms before abruptly wearing through ninety degrees.  
“What’s the matter?” Hornblower asked urgently. It was not impossible that Hotspur had found the French frigate and panicked. But he did not need to ask, for Walton signalled immediately.  
“Rocks,” Sommers called. “Shoal water.”  
“She was nearly aground,” said Prowse, with hint of condescension. Hornblower pursed his lips. “Get a man on the lines.” As far as he knew,  
the mouth of the bay was clear, but he was not going to risk the fate that Hotspur  
had just narrowly avoided. “Signal Hotspur, ‘Proceed with caution’.” “Aye aye, sir,” said Sommers.  
“Sir!” called Orrock.  
“Yes, what now?” Hornblower turned to see Orrock pointing in the other direction, where the three masts of a frigate showed above Bowen Island.

“God, there he is!” Hornblower exclaimed involuntarily. He had been so distracted by Hotspur’s signals that he had come within two miles of the French frigate without seeing her.  
“Just behind the island, sir,” said Orrock. “And we’ve got him!” Bush was grinning.  
“He’s in irons, sir!” said Prowse. “He’ll never get out with this wind.”  
“I know that,” Hornblower snapped. His officers were excited—he could barely think with half a dozen men all talking over one another—and soon Hotspur was signalling, too. No doubt Walton had just spotted the frigate.  
“Run down to her, sir?” Bush asked, while Prowse hovered at his shoulder, ready to port the helm. But, before Hornblower could reply, the sound of cannon cut through the morning.  
“What in God’s name?” Hornblower gasped, spinning to starboard where the shot had come from. There was Hotspur, half a mile off Long Nose Point and at least two miles from the French ship. “What’s she firing at?” he demanded.  
Hotspur’s nine-pounders had no chance at that range.  
“I don’t think she’s firing, sir,” said Bush. “She’s being fired at.” Another shot came, followed by the crash of shattered timber. This time  
Hornblower saw the trail of powder smoke—not from Hotspur but from shore. “Oh my God…” Hornblower’s mind raced to unravel everything that had  
happened in the past sixty seconds. The frigate in the bay and the gun mounted on the shore could only mean one thing: it was no mere happenstance that McRae had seen a French ship in the area; obviously the Frenchman was using the bay for a more permanent purpose—and, whatever it was, Hotspur had walked right into it.  
Bush trained his glass on the point. “At least one gun, sir, in the scrub

there.”

“Course, captain?” said Prowse.  
“Hotspur’s signalling again, sir,” said Sommers.  
Hornblower needed to think but every man on the quarterdeck was vying

for his attention, and Hotspur as well; he had now ignored two signals. “Hold our position, Mr Prowse. Mr Sommers, report.”  
“Under fire from shore, sir,” said Sommers.  
Hornblower clenched his jaw and balled his fist; he did not need to be told that.  
“And ‘ship to starboard’, sir.” “Starboard?”  
“That’s confirmed, sir,” Sommers stammered. “Starboard, sir.”  
The French frigate was on the southern side of the bay, port-side of both ships. Hotspur must have seen another ship, hidden behind Long Nose Point. “Report,” Hornblower barked.

Before Hotspur could respond, another shot punched through her spanker. She veered immediately and the next shot dropped inertly into the sea fifty. Once she was safely out of range, a series of signal-fags wriggled up her masthead  
“Second ship confirmed, sir,” said Sommers, “bearing north three miles.”  
Two ships, two shore batteries. Suddenly Hornblower’s mind was clear. “Go about,” he said. “Signal Hotspur to follow.”  
“Sir!” said Prowse; Bush was equally astonished—but they were thinking only of the helpless ship and another three miles off. Hornblower was thinking of what they could not see and what that they did not know.  
“Get us out of here, Mr Prowse.” Until he knew what he was getting into, he would not enter the bay.

Once he had put the horizon between his two ships and the shore, Hornblower could stop to think. He had found the frigate, almost exactly where McRae had seen it. His orders were to capture her or return immediately, but he had also found land defences and a French corvette, which no-one had expected. Hornblower could not discount the possibility that he had stumbled into Péron’s plan; he could not leave without knowing just what he had found.  
“Heave to,” he said. “Signal Hotspur to do the same, and have her captain come aboard.”  
“Aye sir,” said Sommers.  
Bush and Prowse said nothing; they no longer ventured to make suggestions but merely watched, wondering what Hornblower would do next. It was not in his nature to run away, and they could guess that their captain would not rest idle for long.  
Hotspur acknowledged and stopped alongside Hyacinth, close enough that Hornblower could see her crew patching the holed spanker and clearing away the splinters left by the one shot that told. Meanwhile a small boat made its way between sloop and frigate, carrying Captain Walton.  
“Sir,” Walton said as he stepped aboard..  
“Captain.” Hornblower nodded quickly; he was too preoccupied to tarry with elaborate courtesies. “What’s your damage?”  
“Just a shot-hole, sir—that second shot punched right through the port and knocked the number-four gun off its trucks. Mr Peters was lucky it took the blow and not him, sir; he was only a yard away and all he got was a splinter.”  
Hornblower nodded again. “Good.” By now they had reached his cabin; he held the door open and ushered Walton in. “What was the ship you saw?”  
“A flush-decked corvette, about the same size as us.” Walton meant  
Hotspur. “Ten guns a side, sir.” “That was all you saw?” “Just the two ships, yes.”  
Hornblower pulled out a chair and sat. “What about the gun?”

“On Long Nose Point, sir—I can’t say exactly where. Just the one gun, I think, but I didn’t have time for a Sunday inspection.” Walton sat as well. “Are we going to attack them, Hornblower?”  
“Now?”  
“Well, I…” Walton hesitated, knowing he was being tested, somehow. “We’re more than a match for them, sir.”  
“But what about the gun on the point—and whatever’s waiting for us in the bay? As you said, we’ve hardly made a full inspection.”  
“Yes, I—I know sir.” Walton looked at his hands, clearly embarrassed by his own rashness. “I apologise.”  
“Not at all,” said Hornblower. He could understand Walton’s enthusiasm: there was not a man aboard unaroused by the possibility of action after so many months idle, himself included. Bush and Prowse were chaffing at the bit and Walton too saw an opportunity too good to miss; Hornblower’s job was to ensure, if action did ensue, that it was victorious. “But our first priority is to find out exactly what force the French have in the bay. How far were you able to see?”  
“Clear across to the north, sir. But I couldn’t tell you, east and west.” “That’s what I thought.” Hornblower reached for the chart which showed  
the shape of Jervis’ Bay and, in tentative outline, coves which might conceal a ship from view. “The frigate’s here,” he said, tapping the spot on the southern side where St George’s Head and Bowen Island formed a narrow bay.  
“And the corvette was here,” said Walton, indicating a place halfway along the eastern perimeter. “It might have come from here, or here.” There were two coves potentially capable of harbouring a corvette sketched on the north-eastern side of the bay.  
Hornblower nodded. “It would be the most favourable anchorage.” More favourable, certainly, than the western side where the frigate lay windbound. The other side would offer shelter but with sea room enough to gather steerage way. If the French had other ships in the bay, that was where he could expect to find them.  
“Then… Do we go back in, sir?” Walton asked.  
“No—at least, not the way we came.” Hornblower called through the door, “Guard! Pass the word for the senior officers.” In the short time he had been with Walton, he had formed a plan, which he proceeded to explain to Walton and his officers. “We’re going to beat up the coast to where we were yesterday afternoon.”  
“Sir?” said White; evidently he was more anxious even than the others to take some action against the French ship.  
“The tidal lake,” Hornblower pressed on. “We’ll go ashore at high tide and drag the boats over the sand bar. We can row across the lake and look into the bay that way. We’ll be no more than a mile from Jervis’ Bay.”  
Walton and the other officers nodded quietly.

“We’ve seen a frigate and a twenty-gun corvette. If there are other ships in the bay, we’ll find them on the north-eastern side.” Hornblower indicated the general area on the chart. “The French are protecting the entrance to the bay and that’s where they saw us this morning. They will not expect us further north.”  
Walton’s brow furrowed studiously. “Then you mean to attack overland,

sir?”

“Not to attack, not yet,” said Hornblower. Knowing his answer would

disappoint, he added quickly, “If the opportunity presents itself I will judge it on its merits, but our primary objective is to find out how many they are. We need to know what we’re fighting against.”  
Bush nodded dutifully. “But what about the frigate, sir? Our orders were to take her.”  
“My orders were to find the ship and capture her if possible,” said Hornblower, looking sharply at Bush as he spoke. “We can’t risk being captured ourselves. What we’ve seen is too important.”  
“But—with respect, sir—she’s helpless as long as this wind holds.” “You’re forgetting about the guns, Mr Bush. I think we may presume that  
the French will be keeping vigilant watch tonight.”  
“Yes sir, but—” Bush glanced at White and Martin, as though for affirmation. Hornblower wondered which of them had put Bush up to proposing the plan and inevitably fixed upon White: unfortunately the second lieutenant’s ambition exceeded his intelligence. “But it should be possible to go in around the back of the island and cut her out,” Bush went on. “Surely that would be worth the risk, sir.”  
“Cut her out, yes, and then what?” Hornblower looked from Bush to White as he spoke. “Then we would be as helpless as she is now. A windbound frigate is not much of a prize, Mr Bush. No, we will beat up: Mr Prowse, plot a course; Captain Walton, return to your ship and be ready to make sail…” Hornblower hesitated over his choice of officer. “Mr White, you will go ashore with me this evening.”  
“Aye aye sir.”  
Perhaps he had made the wrong choice in White, Hornblower thought; perhaps he was making a fool of himself: the shore party might find nothing more formidable than a twenty-gun corvette and a stranded frigate. But if he was right—if the French presence in the bay was more serious than they had seen so far—then there was no better way of showing White that caution payed dividends as often as cunning.

It was dusk when the scouting party rowed ashore. The hands beached the boat and Hornblower leapt out onto the soft pale sand; moments later he was followed by White in the small cutter.  
Hornblower led the way on foot while the men dragged the boats over the narrow sand bar that separated the beach from the briny lake. “Quietly now,” he

whispered, and they pushed off again. “Port a little.” Hornblower looked at his compass; there was just enough light to see the needle come to dead south. “Amidships, hold your course.” The southern side of the lake was more rocky than sandy and densely vegetated—not an ideal landing-place—but less than a mile by land from Jervis’ Bay.  
It was very dim as the three boats crept in silence across the surface of the lake; almost dark as they reached the southern shore. The darkness and the hushed swish of oars reminded Hornblower of the cutting-out expeditions he had been part of as a young officer on the Indefatigable. The possibility was tempting, if they could find a French ship and take her by surprise; he had helped claim more than one prize that way. But, for all the reasons he had explained at the meeting, he could not let himself be tempted. “With me,” he said and stepped ashore.  
Hornblower marshalled the landing party on the flat area at the fringe of the forest, and addressed them in a stage whisper. “The bay where we saw the French ship today is just half a mile from here. We will proceed overland. Mr White, you will take your party around to the east. The rest of you men will come with me, along the western shore. Keep to the trees, out of sight, and keep quiet. The French know we are in the area, and they will be on the lookout.”  
A dozen heads nodded in the dark.  
“If you see the French, take note of their number and position. I don’t want to leave tonight without knowing exactly what force they have in the bay. But no further action is to be taken without my orders, is that clear?” Hornblower looked at his second lieutenant.  
“Aye sir,” said White.  
“We will meet back here at midnight,” Hornblower finished, and the two groups parted.  
Beneath the trees their way was black and strewn with twisted roots.  
Hornblower had hardly gone a hundred yards before he tripped on something and staggered into the brush. One of the men was quickly at his side. “Shall I fetch a light from the boat, sir?” he asked in a curly Cornish accent.  
“If you want to get us shot,” Hornblower snapped, sotto voce. He brushed the musty humus from his palms. “Come, quietly now, and carefully.”  
They stumbled on. The sound of eight men’s feet on the crackling undergrowth sounded dreadfully loud to Hornblower’s anxious ears, but it could not be helped. There was the occasional whispered curse, as well, when one of the men stumbled, or when young Hartley, the lithe little topman whom Hornblower had sent to the head of the column, discovered that the way ahead was damp and swampish. Hornblower wished then that he had a chart and light enough to read a compass. Instead he had to rely on his instincts and his memory of a lake seen from Hyacinth’s deck the day before. He was relieved when the vegetation began to thin-out and the men’s footfall was overlaid by the sound of a gently-lapping sea.

Jervis’ Bay was brighter than the surrounding bush; a mirror to the blue light of a moonless sky. The surface was very calm, for the bay was almost completely enclosed and the breeze had dropped since sunset. Calm and quiet; Hornblower found himself lowering his voice even further, but even a low whisper carried across the still night air. “To the right,” he told Hartley, and the boy led off, keeping just behind the trees.  
They could see nothing yet—no ships, no men, no light from campfires.  
Hornblower wondered what White might have found further south; the little coves and scrubby rises obscured his view. But the French must be in the bay, he was sure of it—they would not fortify the entrance only to abandon it—and so he pressed on, trampling through the forest till his feet ached and his hands stung from a thousand unseen prickles.  
Further on, the forest closed in again. Hartley forged ahead, skipping over rocks and dipping under low branches. For a minute he was out of sight, then he fell back alongside his captain. “There’s a sort of a promptery, sir, over there.” He pointed to his left, where the sea had gone from sight.  
Hornblower could not help but smile. But a promontory—that tallied with what he had seen from Hyacinth. “Thank you,” he whispered. “We’ll continue straight and rejoin the coast on the other side.”  
Hartley nodded, and the party ploughed on through the dark towards the shore their captain assured them would be there. No matter that he had no map or compass, not one man doubted what Hornblower said.  
At last they saw it—the sea, showing again through the trees, and then a twinkle of yellow light. A light; Hornblower had to look twice to convince himself it was a light and not reflected Venus.  
“There sir!” said Hartley, forgetting in his excitement that he was supposed to be quiet.  
“Which means you’d better keep your voice down, lad,” one of the other men reminded him, before Hornblower could say anything.  
Hornblower looked around the gathered men—mere shadows in the dark, but shadows that might trip and cry out or step too heavily onto a brittle fallen branch. The job might have been better done by one man than eight, he supposed, but he needed men to row and marines to protect them if they encountered the French at closer quarters than he expected. Now, however, he would continue alone. “I’ll take a closer look,” he whispered.  
“By yourself, sir?” said Fowey, the same man who had offered to fetch a light before. “With those Frenchies about?”  
Hornblower looked from one shadowy face to another. “All right— Hartley, come with me.” He hesitated before adding, “Bring your pistol. The rest of you wait here—and if any one makes a sound, I’ll have that man flogged.  
Marine, you’ll see that my orders are obeyed.” “Aye aye sir,” said the man in crimson.

Captain and topman crept through the bush. They only had to go a few yards before they lost sight of the other men; instead they saw a sandy shore, where the gentle swell barely broke on the vacant beach. Around the bay, on their left, was the light they had seen. Now that they had cleared the trees it was clearly discernible as the stern lights of a ship—perhaps the corvette Hotspur had seen earlier—exactly where Hornblower would have expected to find a ship anchored.  
“Looks like more than one of ‘em, sir,” said Hartley, careful to whisper this time.  
Hornblower’s night glass confirmed it: not one but three corvettes anchored side by side in a small cove on the northern side of the bay. He blinked, but it was not the dewy night making him see in triplicate. He knew now that there were four ships in Jervis’ Bay, and how wise he had been not to take Hotspur and Hyacinth in to investigate. A flush-decked corvette was small-fry compared to a forty-gun frigate, but Hornblower knew well that enough small ships could overcome a frigate just as a pack of dogs could bring down a larger beast—especially in an unfamiliar harbour with guns at the entrance.  
Hornblower’s pulse hummed with the thrill of standing on a beach with nothing but a pistol and the cover of night to protect him from three French ships, less than a mile distant. He passed the glass to Hartley. “See if you can count their guns.”  
The boy took a few steps further.  
“Keep down,” said Hornblower. Keen young eyes were no use to him if they caught French eyes first.  
Hartley dropped to the sand and peered into the glass. “Ten on the near one, I think, sir.”  
Perhaps the twenty-gun corvette Walton had seen that morning, Hornblower thought. “What about the others?”  
“Can’t see ‘em well enough, sir—but one of ‘em looks bigger.” “It’s not the frigate?”  
“Don’t think so, sir.”  
Perhaps twenty-four guns, Hornblower thought; perhaps more: the French had corvettes the size of sixth-rates, with twenty-eight cannon and carronades all counted. In any case, he had his answer, near enough. There might be upwards of ninety French guns in Jervis’ Bay, more than a match for the sixty Hotspur and Hyacinth carried between them. Hornblower knew he must return to Sydney with his news as soon as possible—no doubt Pellew would want to attack with his full force—but there was another question he would doubtless ask: what were the French doing in the bay? “Can you see any sign of a camp on shore?” he asked Hartley. “Tents, defences, campfires?”  
Again Hartley put his eye to the glass. “Could be, sir. It’s hard to tell with all them ships in the way.”

“Here.” Hornblower took the glass and looked for himself. Hartley may have had the better sight—Martin had commended him as the sharpest eye in his division—but he did not have Hornblower’s experience. The captain soon spotted what the boy had not: faint lights from onshore, which moved when he moved behind the mess of masts and yards.  
Hartley must have heard him draw breath. “What is it, sir?” He could not help but ask.  
“Lights,” said Hornblower. “They’re encamped on shore as well.” There was no reason why he should say so, but the boy had done well and Hornblower supposed he deserved to know. He looked a moment longer, then collapsed his glass. “We’ll rejoin the others. Do you think you can find the way?”  
“I think so, sir.”  
“I should have thought to drop some breadcrumbs.” “Sorry sir?”  
Hornblower smiled. “Never mind.”


	14. Chapter 14

“There are guns mounted here and here,” said Hornblower, tapping the place on the chart for the benefit of Pellew, the governor and the gathered officers, “on the point, and on Bowen Island. The three corvettes were anchored here, and the frigate—when we saw her—was here, windbound, to the south- west of the island.”  
Pellew shook his head. “Four ships!” The news was three hours old but, after three months of inaction, it was slow to sink in.  
“And a camp on shore, behind the anchorage here.” Hornblower indicated the northern shore of the bay.  
King was shaking his head, too. His normally pallid complexion had been paler still since Hornblower made his initial report. “Have we any idea of their number?” he asked.  
“The ships’ crews will account for five or six hundred men,” said Pellew. “But they might have many more than that ashore.”  
“But you did not see campfires,” said the governor.  
“No, but the French knew we were in the area. I’m sure they were in no hurry to send up smoke-signals.”  
“And,” Pellew added, “if their intent is to invade, I think we may assume they have brought some sort of land force.” He glanced at King; it seemed to Hornblower that Pellew took a degree of pleasure in playing on the governor’s fears. Pellew himself was as lively as Hornblower had ever seen him. “At any rate,” he said, “we’ll find out when we get there.”  
“You have a plan, sir?” King asked timidly.  
“Of course,” Pellew almost snorted. “We will retake the bay: once we’ve put that gun out of action, I will lead the fleet into the harbour and defeat the French in their own haven.”  
“Y-yes sir,” King stammered. Pellew spoke so confidently that the governor did not dare to question him.  
“We’ll take Hyacinth, the two sloops of course, and anything you think worth bothering with,” Pellew went on. That meant perhaps the Lady Nelson, though her six carronades would be no use against four men of war. “But…”  
Pellew looked from King to Hornblower, whose opinion he esteemed more highly than his own. “To give the French their due—that is to say, to ensure our success—we will launch a two-pronged attack.”

Everyone in the room was waiting for him to continue and Pellew held them in suspense. He was in his element, Hornblower thought; even if there was irony in the way he said ‘fleet’, it did not matter. He was doing what he did best: commanding.  
“A simultaneous land attack,” Pellew announced. “While our ships are battling it out, our troops will march on the French camp.” He looked at King again. “If you think they’re up to it, sir?”  
“Why, yes sir,” said King. “But the cliffs, they’re too high—”  
“I do not intend to walk through the front door,” Pellew cut him off. “Captain Hornblower, perhaps you would indicate again the route by which you approached the French camp.”  
“The tidal lake, here.” Hornblower pointed on the map. “It is accessible across a narrow sand-bar. The southern side is only two miles from the French anchorage. I’ve marked the position on my chart.” He did not add that, on his copy, he had named the lake L. Pellew.  
The admiral nodded. “See that the other charts are marked accordingly.” “Sir…” King seemed confused. “So we attack by way of this lake?”  
“Yes,” said Pellew; he had thought the plan was clear but he spelled it out anyway. “You will take the New South Wales Corps across the lake and attack the French camp from the east while I attack the harbour. We will squeeze them from both sides, like a nutcracker.”  
“Aye sir,” said King, but Pellew was looking at his flag captain. Hornblower nodded. It was a sound plan: he did not see how the modest  
French fleet could possibly resist the forces of an established colony; indeed, the only possible flaw was that the land attack might be unnecessary.  
Having secured Hornblower’s approval, Pellew nodded too. “I trust you can have the troops ready tomorrow morning, sir?” The question was addressed to King.  
“Yes,” he said; he could hardly disagree.  
“Two hundred men, I should think,” Pellew went on. Had they been fighting in Europe, two hundred men would have been little more than cannon fodder but, in New South Wales, two hundred trained soldiers was a large force; many times the number that had put down the rebellion at Parramatta a year earlier. Pellew could be fairly certain the French would not have so many in Jervis’ Bay once they had manned their ships; even if they had sailed with a larger force, from what he had heard of scurvy and disease on French ships, he did not imagine that so many extra troops could have survived in the cramped conditions that would have been required to carry them. “We can take a hundred on Hyacinth and the balance on the two sloops. It will be crowded, but they can bear it for a few days. See that they’re armed and ready to embark by mid-day. As for you gentlemen,” he turned to the three captains, “you’ll be ready to make sail as soon as the troops are aboard.”  
“Yes sir,” said Hornblower. The others nodded.

Pellew’s plan had taken very little time to outline, but the detail took until supper time. Since he was not personally acquainted with the area, Pellew often deferred to Hornblower; together they decided that, with two hundred men, it would be more efficient to march around the lake rather than row across it, and that the best way to disable the gun on Bowen Island would be to take a boat around and ambush the French from behind.  
“Good,” said Pellew, while Hornblower nodded at Bush, to whom he owed the idea of using the channel around the island.  
Soon afterwards Bush departed, along with the lieutenants from Hotspur and Pygmalion, to ensure that they were ready to receive the troops in the morning. King excused himself as well: he would have to call in part of the New  
South Wales Corps from Parramatta, since there were not enough soldiers at hand to assemble the force without leaving Sydney unguarded.  
“Even if I send a man immediately, it is only just possible they will be ready to embark by noon,” he said apologetically.  
“Then you had better send him,” said Pellew.  
“Yes sir.” King hesitated; evidently hoping that Pellew would allow him a little more time. “It is more than twenty miles to Parramatta,” he explained, fussing with his handkerchief.  
“I know that,” said Pellew.  
“Sir, they will have only a few hours for the march,” Pownoll observed when King was gone.  
“And they took only a few hours, last year,” Pellew replied. He was referring to the uprising at Castle Hill, when the New South Wales Corps had marched during the night to fight the rebel convicts. If he had been asking the impossible, Pellew would have relented, but since what he asked was practicable, he saw no reason to relax his orders. “You yourself suggested that the Corps could use a little naval discipline.”  
“Yes sir,” said Pownoll. “Only…” “Yes? What is it now?”  
“Sir…” Evidently Pellew’s response to the previous question had left his son reluctant to ask another; Hornblower wondered if Pownoll knew that his father was only teasing.  
In fact, Pellew’s manner was markedly less formal now that he was alone with the three captains. “Well, don’t sit there gaping or you don’t know what you might swallow!” His sharp look lapsed into a smile. “This place is full of bugs, you know—I forgot to draw my net last night.”  
Pownoll smiled at that. “I was only wondering, sir—why a land attack? Once we capture their ships, the French will have no choice but to surrender their camp.”  
“You’re very confident, captain.” Pellew arched a brow. “Well, I—”

“As am I.” Pellew crossed his arms. “We’re more than a match for their little fleet.”  
“Then why bother with the Corps? They’re so ill-disciplined, I fear they’re not worth the trouble of transporting them.”  
“Perhaps not.” Pellew lowered his voice; there were certain things he did not want the governor’s staff overhearing, though he was prepared to speak more freely to his captains. “I wish to use the New South Wales Corps because I believe it will only damage discipline if we do not use them. At least we can give them something to rally behind—behind the governor, indeed!” Pellew hardly needed to remind Pownoll of the fragile respect that existed between the governor and his troops; Pownoll had learned from the soldiers themselves, in Sydney and in Parramatta. “If he does a halfway-decent job they’ll do theirs— they’re the King’s men, after all—and even if they’re not important in the end, they will feel important. There’s no harm in men thinking that they’ve done something useful, is there?”  
“No sir,” said Pownoll.  
“Mm.” Pellew nearly smiled. “You see, I have not completely ignored those reports you’ve been writing for me.”  
“Thank you, sir.” Pownoll looked embarrassed.  
“Yes… at least we’ll give them something to do besides drinking and gambling.” Pellew looked from Pownoll to Walton and, finally, to Hornblower. “If you will indulge me by ferrying a lot of ill-disciplined idlers to Jervis’ Bay.”  
“Of course, sir,” said Pownoll. The others nodded.  
“In that case, I’ll let you return to your duties—and your supper.” Nodding again, the three men made to leave but, as so many times before,  
Pellew stopped Hornblower at the door. “Captain Hornblower—a word, if I may?”  
“Of course.” Hornblower nodded his farewells to Walton and Pownoll and closed the door behind them. “Yes, sir?” A hint of a smile brightened his questioning eyes. They were alone now, for the first time since Hornblower’s return.  
Pellew rose and came a few paces closer. “Yes, ah… I spoke to Mr Bush earlier.”  
Hornblower waited for him to continue, knowing quite well that Pellew seldom spoke to Bush about anything that did not somehow concern him.  
“Clever boy.” “Sir?”  
“Another man might simply have sailed into that bay.”  
“I’m sure any prudent commander would have taken the same precaution—”  
“Well, Mr Bush was not so sure.” Pellew came closer still. “What I mean is, another man may have found those French ships but he might never have reported them.”

Hornblower looked steadily into Pellew’s eyes. “I like to think he would have, sir.”  
Pellew’s eyes widened as he realised what was meant. “Two ships against four, captain?”  
That was what he meant but Hornblower blushed nonetheless. “I—”  
“And you were always so modest,” Pellew chuckled. “Or were you pretending all these years?” He looked Hornblower up and down. “But you still blush like—”  
“Oh Edward, please.”  
Pellew’s smile was replaced by a more reverent expression. “Do I need to tell you that I think you could have? That I…” He shook his head. “Bugger the New South Wales Corps, you don’t even need me—”  
“I do.” Hornblower cut him off. He held his eyes for a long moment, then they came together and kissed like they had wanted to for days—all the days Hornblower had been away and all the hours they had sat opposite each other at the governor’s table. “I need you,” Hornblower breathed. “I want you.”  
“Oh Horatio,” Pellew gulped and their lips met again, as forcefully as

before.

Lips, nose, cheeks; his kisses roamed everywhere, while roving hands

pushed up inside Hornblower’s jacket and pulled him closer still. It was warm that October evening; warmer still with two bodies pressed close together.  
Hornblower felt himself becoming aroused and Pellew’s arousal against him, right there in the drawing room of Government House, with all the charts and papers from the briefing still laid out. This was the intimacy he had longed for every night he was away; the spontaneity that showed Edward had remembered himself: he was in command, locking lips as decisively as he had laid out his battle plan, and Hornblower was too willing to follow. Only when he found himself unfastening Pellew’s necktie did he remember they were in a public room.  
“We can’t,” he rasped, gasping for breath. “Not here.”  
“We can.” Pellew grasped him firmly. “I happen to know that Captain Hornblower is a man of unparalleled discretion—”  
“—And that discretion tells him that we are standing into danger.”  
“Ah, but Captain Hornblower will foresee that danger in ample time to… to…” Pellew abandoned his words and kissed him instead.  
For a moment Hornblower went along and for a moment it seemed they might forget themselves entirely. But they were both more cautious than that. They stood apart, breath still coming fast, and their eyes met in silent consensus.  
“I missed you,” Pellew whispered. “I missed you too.”  
“In that case, may I propose a compromise?” Hornblower nodded slightly.

“Sleep ashore tonight. We’ll go aboard together, in the morning—as early as you like,” Pellew hastened to add, knowing that, with a battle ahead, Hornblower would be anxious to return to his ship even before his admiral required him to. He looked searchingly into the younger man’s eyes. “Sleep here.”  
“I will,” Hornblower said softly.  
“Good.” Pellew folded his hands behind his back. “And, ah, since you’re here, we might as well find a bite to eat.”  
They left the drawing room to find the butler coming towards them. “His Excellency’s respects, Sir Edward: the governor asks if you will join  
him for a late supper.”  
Pellew smiled. “My compliments to the governor: we’ll come directly.” “Very good sir,” said the butler.  
“I see your caution was well advised, captain,” Pellew murmured, aside.

“I do apologise for the short notice, sir,” Pellew said to King, halfway through the meal, for it seemed strange to sit so long together without speaking of the expedition that was to take place the next day. “But I am sure you appreciate the need for swift action.”  
“Of course, Sir Edward. I have sent one of my best men to Parramatta, post-haste, with orders in the firmest words for the officers there to have a hundred men dockside by ten o’clock tomorrow—to ensure you will have them by noon, sir.”  
“I see,” Pellew replied, somewhat sceptically. King had allowed two hours’ leeway, which Pellew considered far too lenient; more tellingly, he seemed to have no confidence that the New South Wales Corps would comply with his orders as written. No wonder discipline was so poor, Pellew thought, if the governor was prepared to tolerate such laxity. He cleared his throat. “So long as they are ready to board—”  
“Of course, of course,” said King, waving one plump hand. “I am sure this most momentous news will spur them on—may I say once more how it comforts me to have yourself and your forces in the colony, sir.”  
Hornblower looked at the governor as though seeing him for the first time; realising that this was the man who would lead the recalcitrant Corps into battle: this kindly, round-faced, somewhat ineffectual man, who limped when he walked and displayed none of the vigour that Hornblower had always counted  
amongst the cardinal virtues of men in command; the animus excelsus atque invictus. He understood what Pellew was attempting to achieve—to remedy the immediate threat of French attack and the latent malady of ill-discipline and  
disrespect in a single action—but he doubted that simply throwing them together would make King a good leader or the Corps a good fighting force when neither element considered the other fit for the task. But it was worth the attempt, he told himself, since he was confident they would defeat the French at sea, leaving

internal discord—convicts against soldiers, soldiers against officers—the greatest threat to the colony.  
“But do not let me disrupt your supper,” Pellew was saying. “There will be plenty of time to talk further during the voyage south.”  
The governor nodded. “How long do you expect it to take, sir?” he asked more conversationally, though it seemed to Hornblower, as King half-heartedly pursued a forkful of peas across his plate, that he remained apprehensive.  
“Three or four days, depending on the winds, though of course it could be more—” Pellew broke off when he saw the door open. “Captain.”  
It was Pownoll. “Sir,” he said, his dark eyes extending the courtesy to Hornblower and the governor.  
King immediately gestured to a servant, who brought a fourth chair. “Captain Pellew, please join us.”  
“Thank you, sir.” Pownoll sat and a servant set a place for him while the governor poured wine.  
“I thought you had returned to your ship, captain, or else I would have asked you to join us.”  
“Indeed—I thought you had gone aboard, to make preparations,” Pellew added pointedly. He glanced at Hornblower, to make clear that he had no idea his son was still ashore, but said nothing more.  
“I just spoke with Keogh,” Pownoll replied blithely; evidently it had not occurred to him that, when his father suggested he return to his duties, he was expected to return to his ship. “He’s organised for the soldiers to go aboard— though it will be a squeeze, sir, as you said—and everything else is ready.” He reached for his wine. “There wasn’t a lot to do—we’ve hardly touched the magazine, besides what we’ve used for drills, and we replenished that last week.”  
“Ah… good,” said Pellew. He was not impressed—he had expected that, having already missed one expedition south, Pownoll would be anxious to put on a good show—but he did not know what to say. He had not exactly ordered Pownoll to return to Pygmalion and he could hardly chastise him for being out of his ship now when he had been out of his ship—with his admiral’s consent— almost every night since arriving in Sydney. Moreover, he had expressly asked Hornblower not to return to his ship, and Pownoll might well wonder why he was being sent away while Hornblower remained at the table. Sighing, he looked at Pownoll, then at Hornblower.  
“Would you pass the salt, sir?” Pownoll was saying to the governor.  
Clearly he was not about to go anywhere.

“Well, I think I’ll call it a night,” Pellew said when he finished his second glass of port. The governor had already retired and he thought he might as well also, since Pownoll’s presence left no possibility of taking Hornblower to bed with him.  
“Goodnight,” said Pownoll.

“Goodnight,” said Hornblower. His eyes lingered on Pellew—his lips remembered their kiss—but there was no way he could go with him. Instead, for the second time, he would be obliged to share a bed with the other Pellew.  
“What about you?” Pownoll asked, when they were alone. “Shall we turn

in?”

“I suppose so.” Hornblower rose. “I hope to be on board in the morning

watch.”  
“Yes.” Pownoll stood as well. “I take it he hoped I would be on board

now.”

Hornblower refrained from telling Pownoll how right he was. It would

have been hypocritical, especially since he thought they both ought to have been with their ships on the eve of departure. Only a moment of passion had allowed Edward to change his mind. “The admiral thought it would be equally convenient to go aboard together, in the morning,” he explained, partly for Pownoll’s benefit and partly for his own.  
“Well, we’d best get some sleep if we’re going to be up and about before dawn.” Pownoll started out of the drawing room and up the narrow stairs.  
Hornblower looked at Edward’s door as they passed; it was closed, but they could hear Merrick’s voice from within as he helped the admiral undress. Hornblower hesitated, wishing he could have helped Edward—but there was no sense in dwelling on that now. He followed Pownoll into the smaller bedroom.  
This time, Pownoll did not bother to apologise for the narrowness of the bed or the fact that they would have to share and began undressing immediately. Sighing, Hornblower followed suit, but he was distracted, wishing he was with Edward or with his ship in the harbour; anywhere but Pownoll’s room.  
“Are you nervous?”  
Only then did Hornblower realise that he had stalled, half-dressed. “No, only… thinking.”  
“I can see that,” said Pownoll, who was already in his nightshirt. Then he sat on the bed and untied his hair. “I don’t think I’ve congratulated you yet.”  
“It was nothing,” Hornblower replied, not merely out of modesty. For all his playful pride when talking to Edward, part of him was as frustrated as Bush and White and the men that they had not captured the French vessels.  
“Well, everyone thinks it was something.” Pownoll began to brush his thick brown hair. “Something I would have been proud of.” It was impossible to tell if he was jealous.  
“Thank you,” Hornblower said quietly. He joined Pownoll on the bed. “My father thinks it was something,” Pownoll almost laughed. “And I  
didn’t even weigh anchor!”  
Hornblower found himself making excuses for his companion. “We were only scouting—”  
“But you might have captured them, if I’d been there, not cutting capers in Parramatta.” Pownoll set down the brush and began to plait his hair. “Do you

see what I mean about the two of us? In his eyes, I’m lucky if I do no wrong, but you…” Again he laughed that quiet, embarrassed laugh.  
“The battle has not begun yet,” Hornblower said gently. He was embarrassed, too. It was unsettling to hear Pownoll talk about him that way; it was unsettling to hear Pownoll confide in him about Edward, when there were so many secrets he and Edward kept from Pownoll. And it was ironic that he should have spent weeks jealous of Pownoll, only to learn that Pownoll was jealous of him—though jealous was not quite the right word.  
Pownoll sighed, or seemed to. “I suppose you’re right—bother, would you help me with this?” His plait had slipped out.  
“Of course,” said Hornblower. He never tied his own unruly hair in anything more complicated than a pigtail, but there was something pleasingly geometrical about plaiting hair. He had braided Edward’s on occasion; it was simpler than a bowline on a bight.  
“If you wanted an example of my incompetence…” Laughing at himself, Pownoll turned his back to Hornblower. “Thank you—and I do apologise. I’ve not cut it for months; it’s far too long.”  
Hornblower gathered Pownoll’s hair and divided it into three parts. “It’s very handsome,” he said. Pownoll’s hair was smooth and straight and inclined, he discovered, to slip out of his hands; it was certainly very different to his own hair, and different to Edward’s. Suddenly it seemed strangely intimate—almost inappropriate—to be running his hands through his lover’s son’s hair. He quickly tied off with a firm knot. “Done.”  
“I’m obliged,” said Pownoll.  
Soon they were both in bed with the candle blown out and just the grey light from the window to see by. Neither man was asleep; when Hornblower glanced sideways he saw Pownoll’s eyes turned towards the ceiling, glossy in the faint light.  
“Are you nervous?” he asked.  
“Yes,” said Pownoll. “I wasn’t before but I am now.” They lay in silence for another minute before he added, “And restless.”  
“I know how you feel,” said Hornblower. He could seldom sleep when his mind was active, as it always was before a battle. “You might get up and walk about,” he suggested; wondering as he spoke whether he might walk to Edward’s room, but he knew he was being foolish. “And the light won’t bother me, if reading would help.”  
“That depends on the book.” “Sorry?”  
“Oh Hornblower…” Pownoll was laughing again. “Don’t you ever get restless? Or are you so perfect?”  
“Oh,” Hornblower swallowed. Evidently he had misunderstood what Pownoll meant by ‘restless’. His cheeks flushed hot; it was doubly embarrassing to hear of Pownoll’s lust when he had been longing for Pownoll’s father.

Pownoll rolled onto his side so they were facing each other. “Then you ought to see what Miss Pitt was wearing the last time I saw her.”  
“You… you were in Richmond again?” Hornblower asked stupidly.  
“Of course. I call at her mother’s house once a week—you’ve no idea how quick thirty miles go by when you’re in love.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. He had no idea what else to say.  
“But this dress, Hornblower! It was the most tantalisingly chaste…” Pownoll did not attempt to describe it; no doubt his grasp of ladies’ couture was as poor as Hornblower’s. Instead he sighed noisily. “I knew from that moment that I wanted to marry her.”  
So he fancied himself in love with Miss Pitt; he hoped to marry her: Pownoll ought to say these things to his father, Hornblower thought, not to him. Such talk tasked him more than the prospect of battle. “And, ah, and the lady?” he stammered.  
“I haven’t asked her yet. I will, as soon as we return—as soon as I can convince my father!” Pownoll grinned. “But the thought of her makes me sleepless.”  
“Oh,” said Hornblower. Only once the syllable had passed his lips did he realise that Pownoll had put one leg over his.  
“What about you?” Pownoll said calmly. “Has anyone caught your eye?”  
Hornblower did not reply; he was too busy trying to convince himself that the leg lopped over his thigh was the result of a cramped muscle or the narrow bed or some other innocent circumstance.  
“I don’t mean here, necessarily,” Pownoll went on, nothing in his tone betraying his business beneath the bedclothes. “I think I’ve got the only eligible girl in the colony, and I had to go all the way to Richmond to find her! But back in England… have you… anyone?” As he spoke, his foot began to rub against Hornblower’s ankle, eliminating any possible ambiguity.  
“Ah…” Hornblower wobbled. But, since he had not thrown Pownoll off in the first place, he felt there was little he could do now. “No,” he finished weakly.  
“I’m surprised,” said Pownoll. In the same moment he rolled onto his side, so they were pressed close like lovers.  
Hornblower did not want to think about what Pownoll might mean, but even so he did not panic until he realised that Pownoll’s erection was pressing into his thigh.  
“What with your name in the Chronicle last year,” Pownoll went on, “and  
that epaulette on your shoulder…” “I fear you flatter me—  
“—Well, there are other things I can do, if you prefer.”  
Suddenly Pownoll took him in hand and began stroking him assertively. Hornblower was lost for words. What was Pownoll attempting to achieve?  
Was it a favour? Was it some sort of gentlemen’s agreement Hornblower had

never known, because he was too timid, or because he had Edward? Was it normal? Or did Edward’s son fancy him, as Edward himself did? Hornblower’s mind spun: Pownoll’s father; Edward’s son. He knew it was not right and yet all he could do was reply in kind and try not to think of Edward.  
Apparently that was what Pownoll wanted. “That’s the spirit,” he said, laughing, and said nothing more.  
Pownoll was almost on top of him now, groping him as he ground against him. Hornblower was conscious of his own arousal, growing almost against his will under the young man’s hand. He was also conscious of the difference between father and son: Pownoll was smoother, leaner, smaller; he smelled different, too, when Hornblower found his nose pressed to his neck or buried in his hair. Despite himself, he was intrigued: he had never lain with another man before, but he had not failed to wonder.  
It was different but not bad. Pownoll was an attractive young man, healthy, strong and good with his hands, even if he could not plait his own hair. Had he not been Edward’s son, and Hornblower Edward’s lover, it would have seemed almost natural to do this favour for each other; it did seem natural, as arousal dulled the need to think. Instinct took over, and it was Hornblower’s instinct that caused him to kiss Pownoll: first his hair, then his neck, then on the mouth.  
One moment Pownoll’s lips were parting under his; the next he was sitting bolt upright, barking, “Hornblower! What in God’s name are you doing?”  
“I… I…” Hornblower did not know what he had done wrong.  
“Good lord,” Pownoll muttered, and actually wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; the very hand which, moments before, had held Hornblower.  
Hornblower realised then that he had made a grave error by kissing his bedfellow. He did not understand why it was acceptable to grope each other and not to kiss, but clearly those were the inviolable rules of some unspoken code. He raised his hand to his mouth. Pownoll’s repulse had left him with a bloody lip.  
“Are you all right?” Pownoll asked tersely. “I didn’t mean to strike you.” “I’m fine,” said Hornblower. There was a small cut; that was all.  
Pownoll rolled onto his other side, with his face turned away. Hornblower could not tell if he was asleep, but he did not say another word.  
Hornblower lay down too, careful not to touch him. He wished he had somewhere else to sleep, but it was too late to go to his ship and he was too ashamed to go to Edward. Instead he lay in stifling stillness as the sleepless hours passed, trying to remember what had happened, then trying to forget, until he finally fell asleep two hours before dawn.

Hornblower did not wait for Pellew the next morning; he did not even wait for breakfast. He woke early and dressed in the dark, then he slipped away quietly, leaving Pownoll asleep.

The first hint of dawn showed in the east as Hornblower walked down to the wharf but, from the moment he stepped aboard Hyacinth, he was too busy to see the sun rise. The morning flew by in a breathless bustle as the ship was prepared for sea and for the hundred marines to be accommodated on her already-cramped decks. But before they could be brought aboard—before they arrived from Parramatta—room had to be found for munitions and extra provisions to feed the landing force. The work had begun overnight—the grey  
beneath Bush’s eyes told that he had slept as little as Hornblower—but still it was hours before all the stores were stowed. Only then did Hornblower look around himself and see that dawn had become a bright clear day.  
Meanwhile the troops were mustering in the parade ground. The head of the column arrived around ten o’clock, surpassing King’s expectations and proving the value of a rallying cry. Before long a stream of boats was rowing between ship and shore, as fast as they could be loaded. Hornblower watched the red uniforms scrambling through Pygmalion’s entry port; even the harbour swell made them clumsy, so the whole line swayed as the bows lifted and fell. Probably half of them would be sea-sick once they passed the Heads, Hornblower thought; he did not like to think what state the deck would be in if they were, but he could not feel superior, for there had been too many times when he had stained the fresh-scrubbed oak.  
The boat pulled away from Pygmalion. Now Hornblower could see her  
captain, watching as the soldiers were led below. Hornblower turned away; the very sight of Pownoll was enough to redden his cheeks. He tried to recall the events of the night before but his mind repelled the memory like water from a scorching iron. No, he would not think of it. Instead he dived below to inspect the work going on there: the hectic preparations provided ample matter to occupy his attention. He saw that the soldiers were waiting quietly, out of the way of the duty watch; that the magazine had been safely rearranged, so the powder for the landing party could be taken out first; that Glossop and the two hands helping him had almost finished shifting Hornblower’s belongings out of the great cabin and bringing Pellew’s in. Then he went to the chart room and looked over the map of Port Jackson to re-confirm for himself the best way through the Heads with the wind set as it was.  
As always, the wind was the critical variable, and the thought of it sent Hornblower back to the poop deck. Perhaps he imagined it, but the breeze that had blown since the small hours seemed to be moderating as the sun neared its zenith. If he lost that wind, he would likely have to wait for the land breeze before he could gain the Heads—if he dared, in the dark. It was immensely frustrating to think that the tremendous effort which had made the fleet ready for sea in less than twenty-four hours might be wasted because of calm weather. The thought was enough to send Hornblower pacing back and forth across the width of the poop; the only place he could walk without hindering any of the dozen different activities being carried out on deck. A delay of even one day

could be significant as it gave the French a chance to strengthen their defences. At any rate the frigate would have freed herself already—and, if the French commander had any sense, he would double the guns at the harbour entrance. A few cannon could do more damage mounted on shore than as part of a French broadside.  
A frigate, three corvettes, and shore guns on each side; that was the force that would be waiting for them when they reached Jervis Bay—or so Hornblower had assumed. For a sickening moment he wished he had attacked straight away. Would the French remain in their hiding-place, now they had been discovered? There were any number of other harbours up and down the coast—and, of course, Port Jackson to the north. But if the French expected an attack—and surely they did—their best chance was to face it in Jervis’ Bay, where they had the advantages of familiarity and a strong defensive position. Hornblower reassured himself that he would find them there, unless they had abandoned their ambitions. But he did not expect their defence to succeed. Even if Pellew did not defeat them in battle—and he did not expect to fail—he would blockade them in the bay and they would be a thousand times more helpless than the fleet in Brest, without the land resources of France to support them through the siege.  
It made Hornblower angry to think that any government would waste men’s lives on a mission so patently bound for failure. He had to remind himself that New South Wales might well have fallen into French hands, were it not for Pellew’s little fleet. Just a few months ago, the Lady Nelson had been the governor’s largest ship. Hornblower looked at her, just fifty feet from prow to stern, with three carronades a side. She was anchored near Hyacinth, ready to sail with the fleet. She might be useful as a look-out while the other ships exchanged broadsides but alone she stood no chance against the French in Jervis’ Bay; no chance of defending Sydney if and when they attacked. With the Lady Nelson, a half-built battery and an ill-disciplined garrison, Sydney must have seemed vulnerable indeed when François Péron visited; it was disturbing to think that, if the Admiralty had not sent Pellew, the French might well have succeeded in their ambitions—whatever they were.  
Even as he prepared for battle, Hornblower did not understand quite what his enemy was trying to achieve. Péron’s report envisioned the invasion of Sydney, but it said nothing of Jervis’ Bay. Perhaps it was merely a stop along the way, but the gun on the headland suggested at a more permanent occupation: it reminded Hornblower of the protected bays in the Caribbean Sea where Spanish privateers lay in wait for British shipping. Given the increasing volume of trade along the coast of New South Wales, Jervis’ Bay could become a profitable haven for French privateers squeezed out of the Indian Ocean by the British forces there. The temperate and intelligent Captain Baudin had refused to acknowledge British sovereignty over the whole of New Holland; it was no great leap to imagine a man who had proclaimed himself emperor claiming part of it. Even a pirate nest in terra australis would help Bonaparte.

Soon Pellew came aboard, followed by Governor King. “At last I have the opportunity of seeing your ship, sir!” he wheezed as he clambered through the entry port, just far enough behind Pellew to permit distinction, by the number of side-boys, between each man’s rank. “And may I say, most impressive!” King looked around with genuine interest. Hornblower had to remind himself that King was an officer in His Majesty’s Navy; that he had served in the East Indies, North America, the Channel and Gibraltar long before he found himself a colonial administrator. Hyacinth may not have been as lofty as Hibernia, Victory or the other great flagships of the British Navy, but as a fighting ship she was fast and exceptionally powerful. The sight of her soaring masts and the massive twenty-four-pounders on her gun deck must have stirred nostalgic memories in a man who had not seen ship-to-ship action in over twenty years.  
“At last I have the opportunity of repaying your hospitality,” said Pellew. “You know Captain Hornblower and Lieutenant Bush.”  
“Of course.” King shook both hands emphatically. “But it is a pleasure, as always.”  
Hornblower bowed his head. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ll have your dunnage placed in my cabin.” Pellew’s return meant the only accommodation available for King—a post-captain of more than six years’ seniority—was one of the cramped compartments off the wardroom.  
The governor’s reply was predictable. “You need not inconvenience yourself—”  
“I think Captain Hornblower will tell you it’s no inconvenience,” Pellew interrupted. “One little box is much like another.”  
“In that case I thank you, captain,” King replied without any indignation at being assigned quarters no bigger than a lieutenant’s.  
He should offer to show the governor around the ship, Hornblower thought, but there was no time for such trifles now. Pellew was sniffing the breeze and squinting at the sky; evidently he too was anxious to be underway.  
“How soon can we set sail?”  
“Half an hour, sir,” said Hornblower. By his calculations, embarking the troops would take another half hour—at least, he hoped it would only take half an hour. The fitful breeze was flagging and the sooner they could be underway, the better.  
“Kindly signal the other ships,” said Pellew. “Aye aye sir.”  
Pellew’s order was relayed to Bush, from Bush to Sommers, and within two minutes the other ships were acknowledging: Hotspur, Pygmalion and the Lady Nelson. In that moment, Hornblower envied them: they were smaller than the frigate, they could carry fewer men, and so they were ready to sail while yet another boat full of soldiers rowed out to Hyacinth. The trip from shore took only a few minutes but, for Hornblower, those minutes passed with agonising

slowness. If he didn’t want to lose the wind—if he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Edward—he had to find some way to expedite the process.  
Hornblower was watching from the waist when the next boat arrived. “You, private—don’t stand their dawdling,” he called to the first man to come over the side. “Stand clear and let the others through. Marine, see that these men know where to go.” The ship was already crowded but if the area around the entry port could be kept clear, the boats could be unloaded much faster, and they had to be if Hyacinth was to set sail in half an hour. “Better, men,” he told the hands at the oars. “Now reload—and do it as quick as you do on the gun deck!”  
That was a metaphor the men understood: they shoved off grinning and pulled for shore. Hornblower only hoped that, in their haste, they would not lose anyone overboard.

That evening there was a lavish dinner in the admiral’s cabin. Six different dishes ringed the table, with fresh beef, chicken and a spring lamb slaughtered for the occasion. In the middle was an elegant centrepiece piled with the first stone fruit of the season. Later there was sticky pudding, sultana cake and junket. Merrick had been busy—or more likely Merrick and the governor’s entire kitchen staff. Pellew was as attentive to his guests’ glasses as to their plates: there was claret with roast beef, Madeira with dessert, port with cheese, and ratafia and brandy to end the meal. But, despite his efforts, a depressed mood hung over the dinner party: they had lost the wind at eight bells, having come only as far as Botany Bay, and half the landsmen were sea-sick, the governor and Major Johnston among them.  
“Perhaps a little brandy would settle your stomach?” Pellew offered the sickly-looking governor, who had remained stoically at the table, though he had eaten nothing.  
“Oh no, Sir Edward—but I would accept a cup of tea.”  
“Of course.” Pellew only had to glance at Merrick. “Tea? Coffee? Coffee, Hornblower?”  
Hornblower nodded; Pellew smiled knowingly.  
“With respect, sir, I’d better turn in,” said Bush, speaking for himself and Martin.  
“Certainly,” said Pellew. “Good night, gentlemen.”  
The other captains took the opportunity to excuse themselves as well, to Hornblower’s immense relief: somehow he had made it through the evening without saying a word to Pownoll; without making eye-contact. He had tried to tell himself that what they had done the night before was nothing—that it might have been a handshake—and found himself wiping his palms on his trousers. All evening he had been conscious of his sore lip and en garde for some invidious remark. He had even considered feigning sea-sickness, so that he might escape like Major Johnston to the comfort of his little cabin, but Pownoll did not so much as hint at what they had done. No doubt he was just as keen to pretend it

had never happened. Still, sitting at table with Edward and Pownoll had been a painful ordeal; he might not have endured it without the assistance of an admiral’s cellar.  
Now only he, Pellew and the governor remained at the table. Merrick brought hot tea and coffee and took away the cheese; the governor looked more at ease with the whiff of stilton gone from the room. He wrapped his hands gratefully around his tea cup. “I thank you, Sir Edward, for a most thoughtful reception.”  
“I thank you, sir—I only wish you might have enjoyed the fruits of your generosity.”  
“I wish it too—I am quite ashamed to have lost my sea legs!”  
“It can befall even the best men—even Lord Nelson,” Pellew said, though he looked at Hornblower as he spoke.  
King smiled faintly. “There was a time when I would have said this day would never come! There was a time when I could mount the maintop with a glass in my hand! You see what old age will do to a man—with respect, Sir Edward.” With his gout and his rheumatism and now sea-sick as well, it was hard to believe he was ten years younger than Pellew. “And may I congratulate you, sir—you seem quite unaffected.”  
Hornblower winced on Pellew’s behalf; he knew how he hated to be thought old, even if young for his age. Pellew merely grunted, “I have never been sea-sick in my life. Now, shall we address that other matter—or would you prefer to retire?”  
“No no, the tea has fortified me,” King replied, humbled.  
Hornblower pitied him; only rarely had he offended Edward, but he knew how unpleasant it could be. “The other matter, sir?” Perhaps he could move the matter along.  
“Yes,” said Pellew. “I thought it best to wait till Mr Bush left us until we discussed it.”  
Hornblower frowned; he could not imagine what Bush might have done. “The landing party,” Pellew explained. “The governor and I agree that it  
would be advantageous to have one of our officers accompany the troops— someone familiar with the area. Of course, as the senior lieutenant, Mr Bush will expect to be chosen, but he did not go ashore with you, did he?”  
“No,” said Hornblower. He knew what Pellew wanted to achieve, but he was still guessing at what he was supposed to do. “However, I would be happy to volunteer—”  
“Not you, Hornblower.” Pellew had predicted his response. “I need you to command this ship. No, we thought Lieutenant White might be suitable for the task.”  
Hornblower nodded. White had commanded the small cutter the night they went ashore; Hornblower had found the anchorage but White knew the lake and the way to Jervis’ Bay. Whatever Hornblower’s reservations about his

temperament, that experience made White the obvious choice for the landing party. “I’ll tell him tomorrow, sir,” said Hornblower.  
“Kindly ask him to see myself and Major Johnston,” said King.  
“And you might speak to Mr Bush,” said Pellew. “You need only say that it was my decision.”  
Hornblower nodded again. Bush might feel hard done by, but a lieutenant could hardly quibble with an admiral’s orders.  
“Good,” said Pellew. He looked at King, who was still clinging to his empty cup. “Was there anything else?”  
The governor shook his head.  
“Then that’s enough of business—till we have a wind, at least. More tea,

sir?”

“No thank you,” said King. “In fact, if I may, I’ll take my leave.” He rose

unsteadily. “Good night Captain Hornblower, Sir Edward.” “Good night, sir.”  
The governor left and the door closed behind him, leaving Pellew and Hornblower alone for the first time that day. Hornblower looked into his coffee; Pellew looked into Hornblower’s eyes, as rich and dark as the contents of his cup. “Horatio? Are you thinking about Mr Bush?”  
Hornblower looked up. “No.”  
“Because, if you ask me, he has twice the chance of distinguishing himself aboard this ship as with that rabble—and God knows what they’ll find when they reach the French camp.” Pellew’s attitude had not changed. He still saw the land campaign as a morale-building exercise rather than a strategic necessity. If he was right, White was more than equal to the task.  
“Mr Bush will understand,” Hornblower said quietly. Bush was so modest that it might not even have occurred to him that, as first lieutenant, he could expect to accompany the landing party. Besides, he would never have been in command: that was the governor’s responsibility.  
Pellew poured more coffee and they sat for a few minutes in silence. “The doorman told me you left before light,” Pellew said eventually.  
“There was much to be done,” said Hornblower, by way of apology. He wondered if he had broken his orders by leaving before they planned to leave together.  
“And you’ve done admirably well.” Pellew was not angry; if anyone, it was Pownoll who had disobeyed him. He shook his head. “I apologise—about Pownoll.”  
Suddenly Hornblower felt like the ship and he with it had been tossed on a colossal wave. In that nauseating moment it seemed all too obvious that Pownoll had complained to his father about Hornblower’s conduct. What must Edward think? And how could he possibly explain? He felt too sick to speak, though the ship rocked as gently as before.

It was Edward who explained. “I didn’t expect him to stay, not when we sailed the next morning, and I thought… Well, I thought we might—”  
“—I know,” Hornblower interrupted, more abruptly than he intended; it might have been a sigh of relief but he was still too rattled. To have kissed Pownoll, to have affronted him, to have made a molly of himself was bad enough without betraying Edward by dallying with his son. He could not begin to imagine how Edward would react if he ever found out what had transpired in that bedroom; Hornblower almost wanted to pour out the whole story, just to be sure he heard the truth and not whatever distorted version Pownoll might produce. But then it occurred to him that Pownoll would no more tell his father what had happened than Hornblower would have told his. Pownoll had intended nothing more than a moment’s gratification; a mutual convenience done in the dark and never spoken of again. No, Hornblower thought, he could not tell Edward even if he wanted to—to do so would break the vow of discretion he took upon himself when he returned Pownoll’s attentions.  
Pellew looked at Hornblower. He saw the frantic thoughts flickering in his eyes but could only guess at what they meant. “If he weren’t my son, I’d have sent him back to his ship.  
“I understand,” said Hornblower, trying to reassure him; still trying to reassure himself.  
“I know you do.” Pellew pushed his coffee away—it had gone cold—and poured himself a nipperkin of brandy. “But you did seem a little cool this evening.”  
“That was not my intention.”  
“And probably it was nothing.” Pellew chuckled. “Just two young men who spent the night in a very small bed!”  
Hornblower’s stomach knotted; again he wondered whether Pownoll might have said something. But Edward was smiling at him.  
“Horatio, you ought to know I’m teasing,” he said gently; he did not know how close his jest had struck.  
Hornblower nodded weakly. Nothing had changed, he told himself: here was Edward, flirting with him as he had the night before; there was no reason for his cheeks to burn or his hands to tremble. Still, he was glad of the interruption when Sommers called at the door.  
“Come,” said Pellew.  
The midshipman entered, tucking his hat under his arm. “Mr Orrock’s respects, sir—there’s a breeze picking up.”  
“I’ll come,” said Hornblower. He had asked to be called at the first sign of a wind and the good news could not have been better-timed. There were few places he felt more at home than on Hyacinth’s deck with a fresh breeze on her quarter. He was halfway to the door when Pellew rose as well. Hornblower looked at him over his shoulder.

“Well, do you expect me to sit here?” he said, following as fast as he could sweep his hat from the buffet.  
On deck, Orrock had the watch aloft setting the royals in accordance with Hornblower’s night orders. “We’re making half a knot suth’ard, sir,” he said as the captain joined him by the binnacle. “The breeze is still picking up.”  
“Very good,” said Hornblower. The land breeze would provide enough thrust for Hyacinth to continue on her way. Hornblower looked astern and saw Pygmalion’s royals spreading across the dark sky like lilies opening in the night. Behind her, he could just make out Hotspur and the Lady Nelson, keeping position nicely. After four hours becalmed, the fleet had come to life.  
Pellew stopped beside him on the poop, out of the way of Orrock and the hands as they descended from above. They stood together as they often did, with matching stance, their hands behind their backs. Hornblower no longer felt uncomfortable as he had in Pellew’s cabin; the breeze drew the heat from his cheeks and he could forget Pownoll. This was his home: with Edward beside him and oak under his feet. Hornblower turned in slightly so their shoulders almost touched. Together they watched the officer of the watch at work, calling to the men on the clew-lines, walking the length of the waist, always looking aloft to see for himself that the sails were properly trimmed to make the best use of the weak westerly wind. Orrock was only a midshipman but Hornblower could not fault his management of the ship. As he watched him, he was reminded of something he had meant to do weeks ago but had somehow forgotten completely.  
“I’d like to rate Orrock acting lieutenant,” he said, when Orrock was out of ear-shot.  
“That is your decision,” said Pellew. “And a good decision, if you ask me.” He looked at Orrock, statue-like with his glass under one arm, now that the sails were set. “We could use another lieutenant, while White is ashore.”  
“Precisely,” said Hornblower.  
“Though it may be some time before he can take his examination.” “Perhaps not if we’re successful.” Hornblower looked at his admiral; his  
lover. “What happens then?”  
“I don’t know, Horatio. They might recall me, or send me to India. Or they might leave us here at their Lordships’ pleasure.” Pellew shook his head. “You know, Hornblower, I can hardly believe this is happening. I was sure I had been banished.”  
Hornblower smiled faintly. “Perhaps their Lordships are wiser than you thought. Perhaps they respect you more than you thought.”  
“Perhaps,” said Pellew. “But I prefer to think this has all happened to spite Lord Melville.”


	15. Chapter 15

Slowly the fleet made its way south, past the yellow beaches and the ancient cliffs. The wind was fitful at times and the trip took twice as long as it had the week before. The soldiers complained about their quarters and the crew complained about the soldiers; men slept on the bare deck because the ship was too cramped below. There was no sign of the French along that strip of coast and, more than once, Hornblower began to doubt—it was hard to believe they sailed to battle—but when they passed the Gordian coast of Shoals Haven, when the topmast lookout espied the muddy shape of the tidal lake, the crowded ship took on a new energy. The four ships hove to five miles off shore and waited.  
Everything was ready: the boats hoisted outboard; the soldiers marshalled with muskets slung. Then, when the sun was low in the west, they stood in to the coast and landed the troops under the cover of dusk. They were fortunate that the sky was overcast: the diffused light of a half-moon would be enough to find their way.  
The Corps disembarked twice as quickly as they had come aboard.  
Hornblower watched from his quarterdeck as two hundred men swarmed on to the narrow sand bar. There was no need for him to intervene this time. Every man moved purposefully; they spoke in hushed voices as though they were already creeping towards the French camp. Even when one soldier stumbled and fell overboard, the boat’s crew was quick to haul him in. He must have been soaked through but he made no fuss. The October night was warm.  
“Good luck, Mr White,” said Hornblower. “Sir.” White descended into the waiting boat.  
Next came King, in full uniform, with his sword at his hip and Pellew at his side. “Sir.” Hornblower nodded; he did not think he had ever seen the governor dressed like that before.  
“Confusion to the French!” he declared, tipping his hat theatrically. Pellew obliged with a chuckle but Hornblower thought he looked ridiculous: his assumed confidence only betrayed his apprehension. “Till we meet again, gentlemen,” King said and climbed overboard. It was a slow and awkward process, courtesy of his bad knees and the dim light; Hornblower wondered how the governor would manage, marching in the dark through the virgin bush.  
“Better than if I’d let him bring his horse,” Pellew remarked, when all the troops were ashore.

“Yes,” said Hornblower. He looked over Hyacinth’s deck. There were men everywhere in the darkness—keeping lookout, clearing the decks, securing the boats—but still the ship seemed empty after the crowded conditions of the last few days. Hornblower laughed. “It would’ve had to share his berth!” But there was little time for idleness. “Mr Prowse, we’ll weather the headland as soon as the boats are aboard.  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
The headland was only ten miles away but those miles might take hours to gain, with the wind blowing on shore, and Jervis’ Bay was another ten miles beyond that. The fleet would be under sail for most of the night to ensure they were ready for the planned attack at dawn, the same hour when Governor King would attack the French camp, having tramped overland through the night. If Pellew’s ships were not ready to attack—if they lost the wind—the campaign might be an embarrassment. The ships would be safe—Hornblower was confident they could beat the French at sea whether or not King succeeded—but he did not like to think what would happen to two hundred troops stranded in unfamiliar terrain. He watched with some relief as the launch was swayed up and the hands on the clew lines shook out the topsails. Soon Hyacinth and the three ghostly shapes behind her were creeping south through the cloudy night.

It was four bells in the middle watch but no chime came to mark the time. For three hours Pellew’s fleet had floated hove-to just north of the mouth of the Bay, waiting for first light. Until that time, Hornblower had ordered that no bell should be struck and no lantern hung that might reveal their presence to watchful French eyes.  
The ship was quiet. The rigging barely creaked in the gentle breeze and the men on deck were idle, standing in small groups or dozing against the gunwales. The officer of the watched walked silently up and down the larboard side of the quarterdeck to keep himself awake. Hornblower walked to starboard. He could not sleep and he was more at ease walking his quarterdeck than tossing in his hammock while a thousand different versions of the morning’s engagement played themselves out in his mind.  
“Hornblower.”  
The voice was as familiar as his own but, in the darkness of the loneliest part of night, it was enough to make him jump. He turned; of course it was Edward, stepping out of the shadow of the mizzen mast. “I didn’t know you were awake,” said Hornblower. He found himself whispering.  
“Well, I didn’t have much choice. There was a strange noise, you see, like somebody walking about above my cabin.”  
“I’m sorry,” said Hornblower, though he knew that was not the real reason—if Edward could sleep through his own snoring, he could sleep through anything. Hornblower knew they were awake for the same reasons.  
“You’ve been here all night,” said Pellew.

“Yes.”  
“It will be three hours till there’s light enough to attack the bay. You might take an hour or two. I’ll keep watch.”  
“No,” said Hornblower. He was tired, but not tired enough to sleep. Sleep would not come until the battle was over, his ship secured and all necessary orders given. Then he would collapse, more unconscious than asleep. That was the way it always happened. Some men needed to sleep before they faced action; Hornblower almost needed to not sleep. It was as though the long wakeful hours gave his mind a chance to rehearse every detail and consider every contingency he would not have time to think about in the heat of action. It did not matter if his feet ached or his limbs were tired. A captain did not need physical strength to win a battle. He needed a quick acute mind and Hornblower’s mind was never more acute than before a battle.  
Pellew knew it. He did not attempt to argue; he merely stood by Hornblower’s side, offering quiet companionship while they saw out the rest of the night. His mind was working, too, deploying imaginary ships like models upon the map; guessing at what tactic the French might adopt. Would they have strengthened their land defences, as Hornblower predicted, or would they rely on the agility of their ships to defeat a British fleet of unknown force? Would they come out to fight the decisive battle or would they attempt to blockade the harbour? Did they fancy their chances or would they have fled while they could? Anything else was suicide, Pellew thought. For a week, he had scoffed at the idea of the French holding Jervis’ Bay and stirred up the New South Wales Corps with talk of shame-faced Frogs—but, on the eve of battle, he was surprised to find himself nervous.  
The odds were in his favour; he was sure of that—more sure than he had been many times in the past—but short odds would only compound his shame, should he be anything but completely successful. And he had never felt as comfortable in command of a fleet as in command of his own ship. He knew, better than any man in England, how to capture a food convoy or chase down an enemy frigate, but general command was a different matter and one less innate in him. His great victories had been the product of initiative and independence, not pitched battles. He had not matched broadsides at Cape St Vincent or Copenhagen—but he had never wanted to be a Berry or a Hardy. Hornblower was right: he was a frigate captain at heart, and it was hard to forget the lessons of a lifetime. As he stood on the poop deck, waiting for morning, his mind strayed to matters more germane to the man beside him. He had to remind himself that Hyacinth was not Indefatigable. He had to remind himself that Hornblower commanded the frigate; he commanded the fleet.

“Fire!”  
The Long Nose battery had been in range for fifteen minutes and for fifteen minutes Hyacinth had bombarded the scrubby cliff: bow-chasers first, then

the broadside as it came to bear. The pre-dawn light was still too faint to see where those shots had fallen but the regular report from the shore battery told Hyacinth’s captain he had not found his target yet. The return fire told him something else as well: the French were still in Jervis’ Bay and they had at least two guns on the point now; more probably three.  
“There men! Aim for those flashes!” cried Martin, running the length of the main deck as the gun crews reloaded. On the quarterdeck, Acting Lieutenant Orrock gave the same instruction to the men at the long twelve-pounders.  
Hyacinth’s broadside rolled out like thunder and Hornblower had his first hint of  
success: for the moment, the guns on the point were quietened.  
“A hit—sir?” said Bush. At the last moment, the exclamation became a question.  
Hornblower barely nodded and, a minute later, his reservation was justified: the battery banged out its reply. This time he heard three distinct shots, too close together for two guns to have fired them; not French guns, at any rate. Hyacinth’s broadside had secured the first casualty—it might even have killed a whole gun crew—but it had not put those guns out of order. “Keep them under fire,” Hornblower told Bush, “don’t give them time to reload.” Then he turned to Pellew, who was surveying the scene as befitted an admiral: from the quarterdeck, aloof from the gritty business of working the guns. “We might try grape, sir.”  
Pellew nodded. For grape shot to have any effect, Hyacinth would have to stand in to the coast; still, the possibility of disabling the guns—the gunners, at least—was worth exposing the ship to a few shots at close-range. Hornblower gave the word and the quartermaster put the helm over, the gun crews reloaded with bags of grape shot, and the captain paced up and down his patch of quarterdeck, making calculations. On her new tack, Hyacinth could sweep the point and regain the relative safety of half a mile from shore before the French could fire again.  
Meanwhile another volley started up to starboard. Pygmalion, sent ahead to attack the Bowen Island battery, had closed on her target. The sloop was an indistinct shape in the distance—a mere shadow on the cliffs beyond—but Hornblower’s ears told him the French had strengthened their defences there, too. Three guns on each side, he supposed; their cross-fire covered the two-mile mouth of the bay. The map was taking shape in his head—strategy imposed upon geography as the opening hour wore on—but he still lacked the most important piece of information: where were the French ships? It was inconceivable that the frigate was still windbound—even if she had run aground, they would have warped her out by now—and just as improbable that the ships had sailed, leaving six guns to defend an empty bay. But the French had been under fire for almost half an hour and Hornblower was yet to see any sign of their ships. It was possible that King had launched his attack already and

detained the French ships on the other side, but the more likely answer was that their precautions had paid off and they had taken the enemy by surprise.  
The sun crept over the horizon as Hyacinth sailed past Long Nose Point,  
showering the cliff face with grape shot. From the dust kicked up by a thousand lumps of iron, the French guns fired: the first shot went high and plunged into the sea, well short of Hyacinth; Hornblower imagined the gunner, hit as he was taking aim. The second embedded itself in the hull and the third pierced the main topsail before sinking fifty yards away.  
“There, behind that outcrop,” Bush told Midshipman Blanche, who was posted as messenger to the main deck. But Martin had no need of the message: he had seen his target and told the aftermost guns where to aim. The battery did not reply for some time, save for one shot fired wildly, a hundred yards wide. By the time the French fired again, Hyacinth was on the other tack and halfway across the mouth of the bay. The next shot splashed harmlessly into the sea.  
“They’re still firing,” Pellew observed calmly. “Another pass, sir?” said Hornblower.  
Pellew nodded and, in an instant, the pipes were squealing and the hands were at the braces, ready to go about; Prowse stood by to give the order, waiting until Hyacinth had gathered enough way to be sure she would not miss stays.  
Within a few minutes she had turned through the eye of the wind and was making her circuitous way back towards Long Nose Point. The ship rumbled with the sound of thirteen twenty-four-pounders being run out; she would fire her larboard guns this time.  
The manoeuvre gave Pellew a few minutes in which to review the situation. To the north, Hotspur was following the flagship’s example and spraying the battery with grape. To the south, Pygmalion was off Bowen Island, tormenting the plateau with steady fire. Her mizzen topsail was askew—the halyard had been shot through—and, without that sail to stabilise her, she was drifting slowly to leeward. But Pownoll still had plenty of time to go about,  
Pellew told himself—he could not start worrying about Pownoll now—and the constant bombardment was taking its toll on the French gunners: their fire was increasingly sporadic.  
Meanwhile Hornblower continued to pace, past the gun captains crouching by the cascabels, past the quartermaster standing at the helm. He was aware of everything, from the smouldering of the slow match to the steady boom of Pygmalion’s broadside; aware of more than it seemed possible to be aware of. Time became liquid in battle. Sometimes whole hours passed in what felt like minutes; sometimes mere moments stretched into impossible slowness, so that objects seemed to hang in the air, like Zeno’s arrow. Hornblower knew by the rising sun and by the number of broadsides that less than forty minutes had passed since he opened fire, yet he felt like he had been fighting all day. It seemed improbable that his ship should still be unscathed—there had been no casualties that morning—and quite impossible that there had been no sign of the

French. He had to look at his watch, at the lie of the land, at the admiral’s pennant fluttering in the breeze; he had to do the arithmetic in his head to convince himself that it really could take so long for the French ships to make their way around the point—and longer still if, perhaps, the governor was making trouble on the other side of the bay.  
Pellew did not doubt the French would show themselves soon. They could not hope to defend the bay otherwise. Even with the shore guns working at maximum rate—and French guns never did—he had every chance of sailing into the bay with his ships in fine shape. Those guns were only ships’ cannon, after all—twelve-pounders, to judge by the round shot lodged near Hyacinth’s main chains—not the eighty-pound monsters of the Mediterranean coast, which could sink a sloop with one lucky shot. It made no sense that the French should remain out of sight while Pellew’s ships lambasted their batteries—unless they wanted him to enter the bay. Perhaps that was the Frenchman’s tactic. If it were a trap, it could be deadly: his opponent would have the weather-gauge and all the advantages of a bay less familiar to the British than to the Frenchmen hidden there for several weeks at least. If he were to sail into the bay, the victory he had been so confident of might rapidly sink into humiliating defeat. It would be the end of his career, whether or not he got out again: an admiral did not sail into an ambush. But it would be almost as humiliating to lead four ships and two hundred troops into Jervis’ Bay and find no-one there to fight. An admiral did not let the enemy get away, either.  
Hyacinth passed the point again, pelting the cliffs with another volley before the dust had cleared from Hotspur’s pass. With no other target in sight, the two ships could keep the French guns under almost constant fire—and the French gun crews, without the thick walls of a fort to protect them, would not hold out long under that sort of attack. If round shot did not knock the guns from their carriages, grape would pick off their crews until there was no-one left to fire them. Eight, nine, ten, Pellew counted the guns of Hyacinth’s broadside, eleven—then a roar from behind. He spun round to see Hotspur firing on a new target. It was the French frigate, hurtling along under all sail; she must have slipped out from behind the point while every man was busy wearing ship or working the guns. Now she and Hotspur were running parallel, perilously close. When the frigate opened fire, all Walton could do was run. A twenty-gun sloop could not withstand the full broadside of a thirty-six-gun frigate.  
“Go about, engage the frigate!” Pellew shouted. The hands were at the braces even as the last gun fired, bringing the big ship around. This time the manoeuvre seemed agonisingly slow. Pellew kept one eye on the French frigate, one eye on the luffing mainsail, begrudging every second that took the frigate further away. “Forward guns fire as you bear.” Almost a mile astern and still completing her turn, Hyacinth’s first shots were wide but they had the desired effect. The frigate spilled the wind from her sails and fired her stern-chasers. The French reply fell short by a cable’s length; more importantly, it gave Hotspur a

chance to escape. She was well to windward, albeit with half a dozen holes peppering her sails, and the frigate showed no signs of following her; nor Pygmalion, another mile to the south. It would have been unchivalrous, if not unprofitable, for a large frigate to go after a sloop; her natural target was Hyacinth.  
The forecastle carronades were almost in range. Pellew counted the seconds till they could be fired with any chance of success; there was no sense in firing until that moment—and no respite either. One of the corvettes had appeared, fashionably late and with all her guns run out, but Pellew did not have a chance to count them before a thirty-two pound carronade ball tore through Hyacinth’s foresails and smashed into the forecastle; a yard to larboard and it would have struck the foremast. “Fire!” Pellew bellowed, running halfway forward as he roared the word. He was there when the second gun fired; beside him was the spot where that last shot had gone right through the deck. Amid the din of battle he could hear the bleat of the terrified nanny-goat in the manger— she and a few chickens were the only livestock aboard when Hyacinth left port— and here was one of the chickens, a scraggly, sea-sick thing struggling out of the breach on ill-used wings: the shot must have shattered the cage. “Good God, get that hole covered,” Pellew snapped at the nearest man. He would not have his forecastle turned into a farmyard.  
One shot pierced the topsail; another bit into the bows. Meanwhile Hotspur engaged the French corvettes—two of them. That sight reminded Pellew that he should be on the quarterdeck, not giving orders to gun-captains—his officers were quite capable of doing that. He hurried aft, not running this time but striding purposefully, as he supposed an admiral should. In fact, he was rather less confident than he appeared when he asked Hornblower to fall back and engage the nearer corvette. He could not have said whether the French had made their late entry by design or accident, but it was effective; more effective than he had expected.  
Soon Hyacinth had two ships firing on her, but she could stand it better than Hotspur. The corvette aimed high, in the French style, doing as much damage to spars and rigging as she could, while the frigate’s first full broadside pounded into Hyacinth’s hull, playing havoc on her deck. Pellew registered only what he had to: a dead seaman here; a wounded gun-captain there, leaving one of the precious twenty-four-pounders idle while his crew attended to him. Pellew would have been hollering to the gun deck himself if Martin had not pre-empted him. Of course, that was Martin’s job: there he was, laying the gun himself, so it fired not long after the others. The shot went straight through one of the French ports—the corvette was almost parallel now—and blew the gun off its truck. A good result, Pellew thought, and thought no further before the corvette’s reply smashed into the gunwale beside him, sending splinters the size of belaying pins screaming past his head. He did not flinch—there was no time—and he did not even blink when the air cleared and he found himself unscathed. An

inexperienced man might have assumed he was dead and gone to heaven—it looked more like hell—but, for Pellew, it was a matter of course that deadly projectiles should fly around his ears and leave him without a scratch.  
For Hornblower, time once more flowed like treacle. He saw shards of oak curvet like gymnasts and fall like daggers, mere inches from Edward. Then the moment was over, Edward was unharmed and the helmsman, Barry, was dead. Move the body away, see that the helm was manned; those were Hornblower’s only thoughts and the only thoughts that, as captain, he could permit himself—never mind that his lover had nearly been killed, never mind that Barry was a popular man and a good officer. There was no time for sentiment.  
A signal raised on the French frigate showed some decision had been taken; the twenty-four-gun corvette, which had been firing alternately on Hyacinth and Hotspur, shook out her topsails and closed on Pellew’s flagship. The French had identified Hyacinth as the core of the British attack and concentrated their efforts upon her, even though it exposed their corvettes to a broadside of  
twenty-four-pounders. It was a bolder ploy than Pellew had expected of his opponents and not unintelligent: the two sloops would stand little chance against their four assailants if—God forbid—Hyacinth were disabled. Another broadside swept the deck. Pellew cursed silently as he brushed the dust from his jacket; damn it, he would not allow it to happen.  
The morning grew hazy with smoke. Pygmalion—her mizzen top re- rigged—abandoned her attack on Bowen Island and moved north to join the flagship. Something in Pellew wanted to believe that Hyacinth alone could beat off a thirty-six-gun frigate and a twenty-gun corvette; that he did not need his son’s assistance. But Pownoll was not his son, he was a captain in his fleet, and when he heard Hyacinth’s forestay snap, he was glad to see Pygmalion bullishly engaging the corvette. But now the southern battery was unimpeded and there was at least one gun still in action there, taking target-practice while six ships converged in the mouth of the bay. It seemed like Hyacinth was under fire from all sides at once. Still, it would not take much to put that gun out of action.  
Pellew’s eye fell upon on the little Lady Nelson, watching from a mile off shore like a page boy waiting on his master. At last Pellew had an appropriate task for Captain Symons and his tiny ship: with her shallow draught, the brig could venture close in to Bowen Island and put her six carronades to some use; she could sail around behind the island and attack overland. The French would not be able to bring their guns to bear. Pellew spoke to Sommers. “Signal the Lady Nelson, ‘Disable southern battery. Use Marines if convenient’—or words to that effect.” Sommers raised the signal and within minutes the little brig was picking her way across to Bowen Island. But Pellew did not watch her for long. The French commander, seeing the move, brought forward his own pawn: the small sixteen-gun corvette now pestering the British ships from relative safety, behind and between her bigger sisters.

All the players were on stage and they began to pair off: Pygmalion and the twenty-four-gun corvette, Hyacinth and the frigate, Hotspur and the twenty-gun corvette, while the two smaller ships were busy on the periphery. The fight was more static, less frantic. At last Hyacinth’s crew had a chance to re-reeve the forestay and correct her leeward drift. Her broadsides were more effective now, the Frenchman’s more predictable. This was the sort of engagement Pellew had expected: three pairs of ships arrayed in the mouth of the bay, until superior British seamanship and a greater weight of metal should prevail. But still the deadly cannonade continued. Pieces of his ship—no, Hornblower’s ship—were torn away and the number of dead men mounted; one shot from the twenty-gun corvette crashed into the stern, breaking the windows and carrying away part of the ornate counter rail. No, Pellew thought, he did not want to sit still, matching broadsides with a French frigate until both ships were reduced to matchwood.  
Hyacinth would prevail eventually—she had to, with her heavier framing and greater number of guns—but he wanted to expedite that victory.  
He looked at Hornblower. Hornblower, as always, had a plan ready on his lips.

“The frigate,” he said. “See how she heels this way.”  
Pellew looked; he had been watching the French frigate for more than an

hour but only now it was pointed out did he notice her listing to larboard, too far to put it down to the weight of the guns run out port-side or the press of the sea. If anything, the rollers breaking on her bows would tend to counter that effect.  
Of course: the six guns guarding the mouth of the bay must have come from somewhere—and those guns weighed two tons each. He looked at Hornblower, who was watching him with the same expression of barely-constrained ambition Pellew had first seen more than ten years earlier. He wondered how long Hornblower had been waiting to tell him what he had learned: with eight ships held in his mind like juggling balls, Pellew had looked only occasionally to confirm he was still standing.  
“The guns must have come from her starboard side,” Hornblower said eagerly. “They knew they would come at us from behind the point.”  
Pellew nodded; even as Hornblower spoke, he was reaching the same conclusions. There was no other reason why the French commander would unbalance his ship like that. He had sacrificed manoeuvrability for a stronger broadside.  
“But if we can get to her other side—”  
“She’ll only have half her guns,” Pellew finished. He looked at the scene laid out before him, judging whether Hyacinth had wind and sea room enough to make the necessary move—not mathematically, as Hornblower would, but intuitively, using all his years of experience as captain of a frigate so very like her. It would be tight but he had faith in the ship, in the surly sailing master, and in Hornblower who, in all their years together, had never failed him yet. “Do it,” he

said, and a minute later Hyacinth was a flurry of action, sheets and tacks temporarily more important than cannon as she prepared to make her turn.  
Almost stationary and with Pygmalion dead ahead, Hyacinth could not gain the steerage way necessary to tack. She would have to wear instead; happily the onshore wind blowing across her beam would help her on her way, so she turned in a tighter circle than if she had started close-hauled. When the helm was put over, the foresails pulled her head around until she was lying before the wind. Prowse let her make a little leeway, so she crossed the frigate’s bows. The French ship protested: her bow-chaser punched into Hyacinth’s hull. There was screaming from the gun deck but that would not stop Hyacinth completing her turn. Now the yards were braced round and the combined force of wind and rudder brought her onto the starboard tack. Pellew could imagine the French captain’s distress: what Hyacinth was doing was the last thing he would have wanted or expected.  
In a few seconds Hyacinth would be on the frigate’s quarter. This was the crucial moment. “Aim for her masts,” said Pellew; he wanted to make sure that the Frenchman could not follow him. Hyacinth closed, his eyes narrowed.  
Already he could make out the closed ports on the frigate’s starboard side; surely the forward guns were in range by now. He turned and looked for Hornblower but Hornblower was nowhere in sight. Pellew’s brows rushed together like storm clouds. “Fire!” he roared and the number one gun complied, around deck-height and just short of the mizzen-mast. The others followed, sweeping the decks and biting into the rails; one shot grazed the mainmast, one snapped through the stay. “Heave-to,” Pellew told Prowse; Prowse growled the order. Pellew looked at the French frigate: her mainstay flapped, smoke swathed her battered wales. “Independent fire,” he said more quietly. One more lucky shot might bring her mainmast down; it would not be long then until she had to strike her colours.  
But there was another matter on his mind: what had happened to Hornblower? Hornblower had been watching when the carronade ball burst through  
Hyacinth’s side. He had seen the gun crew scattered and with them Lieutenant  
Martin, who had been in charge of the forward guns on the main deck and now lay muddled in the blood of half a dozen men. The number two gun was off its truck, the other crews in confusion, and there was no officer at hand to take over Martin’s station. Hornblower’s men could tack and wear and lay their guns as well as any in the Navy—after months of drills they could reload in record time—but no amount of practice could equal experience in war. His men had not seen action in more than seven months, some of them more; some of them had never seen action at all, so it was not surprising that they should falter now as they stood amongst the wreckage of their mates, with blood on their hands and powder in their eyes. But they did not have time to falter. “Stand to your guns!” Hornblower cried, taking the companion stair in twos. His eyes—his nose, too— took in a scene that, ten years ago, might have made him retch. He picked out men who were walking; men who still had two arms and nothing to occupy

them. “You there, see if you can help these men.” Hornblower knew they were past help but, for the sake of the hundred healthy souls crammed onto the gun deck, he could not let them die in the scuppers. “Leave it, Mr Clyde,” he told the midshipman who was despairing over the unshipped gun. The frigate’s foremast was almost in view; there was no time to fit the trunnions back in their carriage. “See that the other guns are run-out and ready to fire.”  
“Aye sir,” said Clyde. Seven months ago he had been the youngest son of an affluent banker, living comfortably at the Naval Academy in Portsmouth, where he had apparently learned little before his father found him a posting with his friend Sir Edward Pellew; now he had to act like an officer.  
Cartridge, shot, wad, ram-rod. Behind him, Hornblower could hear the rumble of wheels and the squeal of the tackles as the number one gun was run out. At last he came to Martin. The crowd of concerned men gathered round him had cleared when their captain appeared on the gun deck but one man remained, supporting Martin’s head on his knees. It was impossible to tell just what had happened; there was a gash across his forehead and his waistcoat was soused with blood.  
“He’s alive, sir,” the man volunteered; he must have read the question in his captain’s eyes.  
“Take him to the surgeon,” said Hornblower. But the task would take two men. He saw a face and plucked a name from somewhere. “Carruthers, lend a hand—carefully now.”  
“Aye sir.” The men carried Martin below.  
Hornblower had been on the gun deck less than a minute and he had taken less than a minute to restore order. “Fire!” the order came from the quarterdeck; “Fire!”, louder, when no shot came—Pellew’s voice this time.  
Hornblower looked at the number one gun. At last it was ready: the captain tugged the lanyard and the gun reeled back on its restraining tackles. The number three gun followed; four, five, six. “Reload!” Hornblower bawled, running aft to watch the shots skim the frigate’s deck or slam into her hull.  
For half an hour, Hyacinth never ceased firing; for half an hour,  
Hornblower never left the gun deck. In the close space, the air was uncomfortably hot and acrid with powder. Sweat ran down his neck and soaked his uniform but he never rested, always walking up and down beside the starboard guns like he had as a lieutenant stationed on the gun deck. The French made a valiant retaliation with the six guns available to them—seven, eight.  
Rather than attempt to go about and risk running foul of the ships either side, the French were shifting cannon from the starboard side. Moving guns was a laborious task—all the more so on the shuddering deck of a ship in action—but Hornblower supposed he would have done the same: it was their best chance and, with only six crews in action, they had the hands to spare.  
Then one of those new guns fired and Hornblower had a more immediate problem to occupy him. That shot had struck the side of the port hole and much

of the wood it had ripped away was now lodged in the unlucky gun crew as they were reloading. Two men were dead, one blinded, the gun-captain had blood streaming down his face and the powder monkey was lying unconscious with an enormous piece of yellow-painted timber lodged in his loin. The other men had splinters and scrapes; some sat on the deck, dazed.  
This time Clyde responded as he should. “Help these men,” he told the loblolly boy.  
Meanwhile one of the fallen men picked himself up off the deck and pulled the splinter from his own arm. The loblolly boy tried to assist him but he didn’t want assistance. He staggered towards Hornblower. “That gun’s loaded, sir.”  
“Yes,” said Hornblower. He was right—the gun-captain had pricked the cartridge just before he fell—and as such it was dangerous. Smoke eddied in the air—smoke from the dozen other guns at work on the main deck—but it was easy to believe that smoke came from the mass of iron before him. The safest thing to do was fire it. He grabbed the belt pouch from the body of the second gun-captain and found a quill tube. It did not slip in easily as it would for a practiced hand—it had been years since Hornblower had worked a twenty-four- pounder—and he was nervous as he fitted the tube into the vent hole. As he worked he saw his hands, blackened with powder and stained with blood—not his; he could not remember how it came there. At last it was done and Hornblower stepped aside, taking hold of the lanyard. “Keep back,” he told the dazed crewman, then pulled. The gun went off, knocking a chunk out of the frigate’s hull. “Mr Clyde,” said Hornblower, “get this gun reloaded.” Only then did he realise his hands were shaking.  
Soon he heard shouting. It did not take long for word to reach the gun deck that the corvette Rapide had struck her colours. Edward would be pleased, Hornblower thought, as one gun was run out and another recoiled on its tackles: Pownoll had claimed the first prize. But it would not be long until he had his: the frigate’s hull was pitted and blackened, one of her guns projected pendulously from its port, and a mass of spars and rigging dangled over the quarter-gallery, threatening to drag the whole mizzen mast down with it—Hornblower supposed her captain could not spare the men to cut it free. But it was the mainmast that eventually fell: weakened already by a bite out of the base, it only needed one direct hit to send a hundred feet of pine crashing down through the larboard wale. The whole ship reeled. Water gushed in her ports and rushed out to starboard as she rolled back again; water stained red with blood. Back and forth she rolled, flushing her decks clean as she struggled to regain her balance. The slight list that had apprised Hornblower of the missing guns was now a dangerous incline. She had not surrendered—somehow, someone on the lurching hulk managed one last defiant shot—but the frigate was crippled and, on Hyacinth’s quarterdeck, Pellew would be giving the order to board her.

“Mr Clyde, you have command of the gun deck,” Hornblower said hastily as climbed the companion stair. It was a lofty post for a lowly midshipman, but he had no choice: there was no more senior officer in sight and he had to be ready to board the frigate.  
He met Orrock coming down. “Admiral Pellew’s respects, sir—we’re going to board her.”  
The young Irishman spoke so fast that Hornblower might not have understood, had he not known already what Orrock was going to say.  
Hornblower merely nodded; he did not need to ask Orrock to prepare the boarding party, for he could already see men ready with boarding planks. Pellew had put them to work—it had been five years since he received the broad pennant of a commodore but he had never quite overcome the urge to do the captain’s job for him—and now he was busy by the signal locker, badgering the bumbling quartermaster who had taken over from the officer. “For God’s sake, he’ll be aground before you raise his number,” Pellew snapped, thrusting flags into the hapless man’s hands. Orrock almost smiled—but that was the only light relief to be had on the battle-marred deck. Hornblower had to assume the worst for poor Midshipman Sommers, like Lieutenant Martin, whom he had sent to the surgeon what seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a deflating reminder that, even on the cusp of victory, he stood in a sea of destruction. Before him was the frigate, Consul, dismasted and low in the water, with obstinate smoke still billowing from her splintered ports. To his left, the white ensign flew on Pygmalion’s prize. To his right, two ships pounded each other with what must be  
their last salvos: Hotspur was badly damaged but she had driven the corvette  
Catone onto the rocks off Long Nose Point. When she struck her colours, the frigate had no choice but to do so too. Hornblower heard the men’s cheer before he saw the tricolore hauled down; as hearty a cheer as any he had heard. The men did not think about the bodies laid out in the orlop or the bloodstained bilge from Consul’s ports as they called out ‘Huzzah!’; they did not see the dark stain on the deck where young Sommers had stood.  
“Sir,” said Bush, “the boats are ready.”  
Hornblower nodded, squared his shoulders, and followed Bush. Pellew was there; they exchanged only the briefest glance as Hornblower climbed over the side, but that glance was enough to tell each what he needed to know: men had died, more were dying, but they were both alive and well.


	16. Chapter 16

One after another the reports came in—the surgeon, the sailing master, the ship’s carpenter—all telling the cost of victory. But as Pellew listened to the numbers of dead and wounded, his experience told him that the cost had not been great; certainly not when compared with the French losses. One third casualties aboard the corvette Rapide; no captain alive aboard Catone to hand Walton his sword, while the French commander had taken a blow to the head and was lying in Hyacinth’s sick berth until such a time as he was sensible enough to be interrogated. The two sloop captains submitted their reports as well: they had survived close combat with ships larger than their own, though Pownoll could not say the same for his first lieutenant and Walton had a nasty gash to his shoulder that would take some time to heal; so said the midshipman who brought his report to Pellew. Then came Governor King, who had not a single casualty to report. “Not one!” he cried, as distraught as if he had lost half his force. “Two hundred men against scarce more than thirty—and half of them dead before we knew there were no more coming. It was not a victory, sir, it was a massacre!”  
“And what say your men?” said Pellew. “What do they think?”  
“Why they cheered, of course. The brutal fools thought it glorious—” “I would not call men fools, sir, for being glad of their lives—unless you  
mean to ally yourself with the French cause?”  
The governor crumbled under Pellew’s glare. “Of course not, Sir Edward, but the rules of just war—”  
Pellew glanced at Hornblower. “‘Just war’ is to live in peace. Just war is England victorious!” Again he fixed the governor with a stare. “You should be glad to have achieved that without adding the names of your men to the many who have died this day.”  
“Of course, sir,” said King. “I thank the Lord for it.”  
Pellew grunted; that was the only sign he gave that he was satisfied. “And what of your men? How did they acquit themselves—bearing in mind that I will be speaking with Lieutenant White.” Pellew had been as little impressed as anyone by the New South Wales Corps, but still less was he impressed by a commander who bad-mouthed his men rather than taking them in hand.  
“I could not fault them, sir—indeed, I would have been quite lost without  
them.”

How lost, Pellew did not enquire; his intention was to teach the governor strength, not weakness, and above all how to work with the Corps. “Then you see the advantage of a little naval discipline?”  
“Forsooth, sir—I am a Navy man.”  
“But you are also His Majesty’s governor—and so I must ask you to go ashore and remain there in command of your troops until we are able to return to Sydney.”  
“Aye aye sir.”  
King finished making his report and left the great cabin, his heels crunching on the gritty dust of splintered wood and shattered glass. Pellew looked around the room: the gallery windows, chipped, pitted and open to the night air; the notch in the bulkhead where the shot had struck; the sword, with its ivory and gold, that Hornblower had taken from the French commander— and Hornblower himself, who had sat with him while each man made his report, hour after hour, though they had never been alone in that time. Now Hornblower was looking at him with bright eyes that betrayed none of the  
thirty-odd hours since he had slept, though they showed in the dark circles beneath. What to say, Pellew wondered; what was there left to say when they had fought and won and stitched up the dead in their hammocks—what but a prayer of thanks that Hornblower was safe? But he did not have long to ponder his words, for Hornblower spoke first, and spoke so calmly that the blood on his clothes and the powder on his face might have been no more than spilled paint.  
“Cicero, sir?”  
“Hmm?”  
“‘The only justification for waging war is to live in peace without injury’.”  
Pellew raised his eyebrows. “What, did you think I wasn’t listening all those evenings you read to me?”  
“I did suspect it,” Hornblower almost laughed.  
“Well, the governor would do well to read it—he would do well to read the Articles! Guns on the point, men camped ashore… I do not see how he can quarrel with that. He was following orders, after all.”  
“But two hundred men against thirty,” said Hornblower. “He must have felt like a butcher.”  
“Did you, ten years ago?” “Ten years?”  
Pellew looked into the younger man’s eyes. “Ten years ago, when you took command of the Papillon and blew three corvettes out of the water while still flying French colours?”  
Hornblower flinched. “I wondered whether you noticed.”  
“Noticed? Even if I had somehow not noticed, Mr Bowles would not let me forget that young Midshipman Hornblower had breached the Articles of War!”  
“You never mentioned it.”

“No. Because you did what was necessary. You saved all our lives, Horatio.  
You saved mine.”  
“But did that make it just?”  
“I believe… I believe justice does not always consist in the word of the law. Mr Bowles is entitled to his own opinion, of course, but I think even he would be hard-pressed to deny that what you did then was right.” Pellew cleared his throat. “As for the governor, he ought to think about the state of this colony, not salve for his conscience. He followed his orders; he did his duty with a minimum of loss. I do not think there is any greater good than that.”  
“No,” said Hornblower. Pellew was right, of course, but he wished he could share the men’s uncomplicated sense of triumph. Perhaps it was being so far from home that made him uneasy: it was one thing to fight in the Mediterranean or off England’s own coast; another to fight half a world away from home in a place so remote, untamed and unfamiliar that Captain Baudin had reasonably asked whether any European—French or English—could rightfully lay claim to it. If Governor King had reason to feel uneasy, Hornblower had greater grounds, for King had lived in the colony several years, while he was a visitor of less than four months. Once again, Hornblower had to remind himself of the world-scale of the war; that Sydney was a British colony as much in need of protection as any other outpost. The very presence of the French fleet was proof enough of that. But ultimately it made little difference where the men had died or that they had died in a good cause; they had died, just the same: almost forty Englishmen and many more French.  
“No,” Pellew echoed. “That we might have shared his good fortune!” He looked at the unfinished report before him on the table; it could not truly be finished until the casualties were counted and the dying dead. There was nothing remarkable about the casualty-list: twelve dead on Hyacinth, twenty-five on the two sloops—which was moderate, he supposed, given how audaciously their captains had pursued more powerful foe. There was no reason why the numbers should unnerve him. For nearly forty years he had seen men die; for nearly forty years he had squared his jaw and soldiered on, knowing he could do nothing but do his duty, whoever the dead man was. Even when he found himself serving beside his beloved, he and Hornblower had tacitly agreed not to let their  
attachment come before their duty to their king. Whatever may befall us, whatever… Those were the terms on which they loved each other. Pellew had never treated Hornblower other than as his best officer and, should anything  
happen to him, he had always trusted himself to carry on—until now. Perhaps it was the stress of sending his eldest son and his dearest love into the same action, perhaps it was the long months he and Hornblower had spent together, perhaps he had simply grown soft with the passing years, but Pellew no longer trusted himself not to break down if Hornblower were lost. That was what made the catalogue before him all the more abhorrent: knowing that each name written there might as easily be Horatio Hornblower. “When you disappeared, on the

gun deck… I don’t know what I would have done, had you not come back.” He spoke as though making a confession, for he had broken his own dictate. Then he looked away. He did not wait to hear if Hornblower would say the same; he had never expected him to feel as he felt for him.  
Hornblower said nothing. Instead he threw his arms around Edward’s neck, mouthing his name again and again as he sought out his lips and his sooty cheek.  
“Horatio!” Pellew gasped, gathering him in his lap, but Hornblower smothered him with another kiss, driven not by carnal desire but some pressing need for physical contact, as though he meant to inhale his very flesh. For the first time that day, he had the chance to say what he had wanted to say when he found Edward safe and sound, and he said it with frantic kisses. When at last he relented, he was breathless and quite red in the face. “I don’t know what I would have done,” he said sheepishly.  
“I dread to think,” said Pellew, “since you’ve near choked me as it is!” Hornblower was frowning.  
“Horatio, I jest—”  
“No, you have a scratch,” said Hornblower, pushing Pellew’s grizzled hair back from his forehead. Within an instant he had pulled out his handkerchief and was dabbing at the dried blood.  
“Horatio, it’s just a scrape! I barely noticed it.” “No splinter?”  
“No,” said Pellew. “Don’t worry it and it will be perfectly all right.” He confiscated the handkerchief. “I suggest you take yourself to the sick berth, if you wish to nurse the wounded.”  
“I’m sorry,” said Hornblower. He had not meant to make a fuss; all the anxieties of the past twenty-four hours had caught up with him and made him fret over a trifle.  
Pellew shook his head slowly. “I fear this voyage has done us no good at

all.”

Hornblower frowned again. “How so?”  
“We’re too wrapped up in each other. Too much in love.” Pellew reached

out and stroked Hornblower’s cheek, shadowed with powder and a day without shaving.  
Hornblower looked wounded; he pulled out of the caress. “Why do you regret it?”  
“Of course I don’t,” said Pellew, dewy-eyed . “I never loved so completely.  
I never thought it possible.” “Then what do you mean?”  
“When you came up the companion way, nothing else mattered. Not the Consul, not Bonaparte, not their Lordships in England. I mean these months have changed us, Horatio.” He took Hornblower’s hand and squeezed it. “I never thought I’d feel like this.”

Hornblower studied him. “You mean you never thought you’d admit it.”  
Pellew did not reply, but the look they exchanged showed their true colours; the pale blush in Hornblower’s cheeks told that the question was as good as an answer.  
They sat like that for some time: saying nothing, simply holding hands and revelling in the feel of skin on warm living skin. A breeze blew through the broken window, bearing the sounds of the ships at anchor and the smell of eucalypts, mingled with the last hint of powder. They heard the rhythmic chant of men’s voices as they heaved masts or spars into place. Hornblower blinked wearily. It was strange to ensconce themselves thus while there were reports to write and rigging to repair. If he had not been so tired, if he had not just fought a battle, if he had not been so in love, Hornblower might have been ashamed to behave so sentimentally, but instead he felt only relief at being with his lover, having seen so much death and destruction. He let his eyes close; for a moment he thought he might fall asleep. But Hornblower could never forget his duty for very long. His mind turned inevitably to the French ships they had captured that day—undoubtedly the same three corvettes they had met in the Atlantic.  
“What do you think they were doing?” he said. “Do you think they were planning to stay?” With cannon on the headland and a camp on the beach, it was difficult to ignore the possibility—however lunatic it seemed—that Bonaparte intended to plant a colony not two hundred miles from Sydney on the shores of Jervis’ Bay.  
“Not just passing through,” Pellew grunted. Proof, if he needed it, was the news that Consul’s captain had been an officer in Baudin’s expedition. “I suppose we’ll have a better idea once our guest wakes up.”  
“Shall we see how he is?”  
“Why not?” said Pellew. “Catch him while he’s still groggy, and he might even tell you something.”

The sick berth smelled of death, of blood and of too many men in an airless space. Twelve men had died; twice that number were crowded into the cock pit with wounds ranging from cuts and splinters to crushed limbs and major concussions. The surgeon had been busy all day with needle and knife.  
Hornblower and Pellew saw his handiwork now as they made their way between the close-slung cots: men with bandaged stumps, some groaning with pain, or horror at what they had become, others bearing themselves with fortitude that Hornblower could only admire. One man, who had lost an arm, was sitting up boasting to the fellow beside him, disfigured by sixteen stitches in his face, that he had fired the first shot to strike Consul’s mainmast—“Sir!” he added when he saw the captain and the admiral approach.  
“As you were,” Hornblower mumbled, fighting down the urge to be sick.  
He had seen the man’s stump twitch in an instinctive effort to salute.

At the far end of the room were the officers: the French commander, the master’s mate, and poor Lieutenant Martin. The surgeon was with him, sponging his brow. That was the only indication Martin was alive: so pale was he and so shallow his breath that anyone might have mistaken his sleep for death.  
“How is he?” Hornblower asked. Pellew hung back; Hornblower was the captain and Martin was his lieutenant. It was his place to make the enquiry.  
The surgeon, Lenel, shook his head—Martin, as Hornblower had surmised, was as good as dead. “It’s a miracle he’s lasted so long, sir. I can’t even say what his injuries are, precisely. If I open him up he’ll bleed to death for sure.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. He looked at the lieutenant’s trunk, so bloody and congealed that it was impossible to tell flesh from fabric. So that was to be Martin’s lot: his own spilled blood would hold him together and keep him from bleeding to death until his injuries inevitably claimed him. Again Hornblower thought he would be ill. It would have been kinder if Martin had been killed outright. In that moment, Hornblower was doubly glad his father had declined to take him as an apprentice: he doubted whether he had the stomach for the medical profession.  
Perhaps Lenel noticed the captain’s discomfort; he covered Martin’s wounds with a sheet.  
“Has he woken at all?” Hornblower asked.  
“Only fitfully; not truly awake, sir. He did say he had something to tell Mr Bush—I expect the poor fellow still thinks he’s on the gun deck.”  
“Mm,” said Hornblower. Martin and Bush were friends; he suspected Martin’s intent was more personal than that. “See that Mr Bush is called if he wakes up.”  
“I will, sir.” Lenel did not seem to think it likely that Martin would wake. “I’m sorry I can’t do more for him, sir.”  
“I thank you for your efforts,” Hornblower said gloomily. Of course he had lost men before, but it was always difficult to lose an officer, especially a capable pleasant young man like Martin. And he felt for Bush as well: Martin had been Bush’s only friend on this voyage, since Hornblower himself had been so distant. Now he turned to the French commander: he was concussed, with bad bruising to his forehead, but Hornblower had seen men with similar injuries up in the ratlines within a few hours. He looked at the surgeon. “What of the prisoner?”  
“I expect he’ll come around soon, sir, but I’ve no idea what to say to him when he does. It’s safe to wake him, if you want to.”  
Hornblower glanced at Pellew, who nodded. Then he cleared his throat and addressed the sleeping Frenchman. “Capitaine de Freycinet.” There was no response, so Hornblower touched his elbow and spoke a little louder. “Monsieur le capitaine.”  
Now Freycinet’s lids fluttered open and he looked about in confusion, as was to be expected of a man waking up to a strange face in a strange ship, even

without the blow to the head. He took a few moments to recognise Hornblower as the man who had relieved him of his sword.  
“Je suis capitaine Horatio Hornblower de la frégate Hyacinth de Sa  
Majesté le Roi,” Hornblower said, and continued in French, “this is Admiral Sir Edward Pellew.”  
The bewildered Frenchman nodded awkwardly.  
“I hope you are feeling better, sir,” said Hornblower. “I have lost my ship,” came the reply.  
Hornblower nodded considerately. “But you fought most gallantly, captain.” He searched his imperfect knowledge of French for words of consolation that would sound neither insulting nor insincere. “I respect your determined efforts against a stronger force.”  
Again Freycinet bobbed his head.  
“But I must ask you a question,” Hornblower pressed on. “What were your ships doing in the bay?”  
Now that they had dispensed with the preliminaries, some of their meticulous gentility was dispensed with as well. “I ask what are you doing in this place,” Freycinet replied. Clearly concussion had not curbed a quick tongue.  
Hornblower was briefly ruffled. Freycinet’s retort was precisely the same argument used by Captain Baudin when he planted his flag on King’s Island and by the French ship met by the whaler on that very strip of coast. It was clearly intended to deny British sovereignty; to deny the effectiveness of the flag flying in Sydney Cove to secure Britain’s claim over the whole of the vast southern continent. Even his choice of words seemed calculated to exclude Britain’s claim: Freycinet spoke of terre as though the continent were some kind of universal common. Hornblower formed his reply carefully. “Monsieur, this terre is the territoire of His Majesty King George the Third.”  
“I do not see him,” said Freycinet. It was an obtuse reply, made merely to avoid answering the question, and Hornblower met it calmly.  
“Look around yourself, captain: you are on one of his ships.”  
Freycinet seemed subdued. He sunk back on the pillow and let his eyes close. “I apologise, Captain Hornblower. I am fatigued.”  
“Then I shall let you rest—presently.” Hornblower would not be defeated so easily. “But first, sir, perhaps you might tell me what orders brought you to this place.”  
“The orders of my superiors.”  
Hornblower resisted the urge to groan aloud, reminding himself that, in the same circumstances, he would have been just as uncooperative.  
Freycinet was still prevaricating, several minutes later, when Hornblower became aware of someone entering the sick berth. He turned and saw Bush, staring dumbly at the scene before him: Hornblower and the French commander, Pellew and the surgeon, and the tortured form of Lieutenant Martin. The sight of his friend seemed to sap all colour from Bush’s cheeks and turn his voice more

gravelly than ever before. “Sir, I… I’m sorry to intrude, sir…” Bush looked right and left, unsure whether to address captain or admiral; Hornblower had never seen him so rattled.  
“Yes, Mr Bush?” Pellew said patiently.  
“It’s the Catone, sir,” Bush stammered. “She’s sinking.” Pellew’s furrows deepened. “What about the pumps?”  
“They’ve been going all day, sir, but the men can’t keep up. I expect they’re exhausted, sir.”  
Of course they were: already weary from the exertions of battle, every man left standing had been put to work repairing damage, working the bilge pumps, or bringing the battered ships to a safe anchorage in the bay. Pellew had barely enough men for his own ships without assisting the prizes as well and, even if he managed to find enough fresh men to man Catone’s pumps through the night, there was no guarantee that would save her. The corvette had breached her hull on the rocks off Long Nose Point and there had been no opportunity to inspect the damage, which might well be too severe to be patched over; that seemed to be what Bush was intimating, as intrepidly as a lieutenant could.  
“I could call for volunteers, sir,” Bush suggested.  
“No.” Catone’s value in prize-money and the impracticality of evacuating her entire crew in boats which might well have been shot to pieces left Pellew no alternative but to put her aground while she was still afloat.  
“We could beach her,” said Hornblower, who had all but forgotten about the French captain. “The tide’s up and the wind’s onshore—”  
“Exactly,” said Pellew. He was not always far behind Hornblower, even at fifty-three. “Can she be steered?”  
“She was steered to her anchorage,” Hornblower observed. “Good. Then have her captain weigh anchor at once.”  
“Aye aye sir,” said Bush. As the junior officer present, he could only assume Pellew was addressing him. He turned and made to leave but, as he did, he glanced once more at his friend. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but Martin’s bloodless lips seemed to move.  
Pellew saw it too, then he heard it: “Bush”. Bush stopped abruptly.  
“Bush,” Martin said again, his voice little more than a wheezy whisper. “William.” This time Bush staggered a few steps nearer. He was like canvas in a gale, Pellew thought: driven by affection and fettered by duty, tearing itself apart. Bush was lost for words but he clasped his friend’s hand where it lay on the sheet.  
“Sir,” said Hornblower; he spoke to Pellew, not Bush.  
“I—I’m sorry, sir,” said Bush. It was as though he were physically stuck by Martin’s side, even if that meant disobeying his orders. “Mr Bush…” Hornblower did not know how to continue.  
“Belay that,” said Pellew. He looked at the two lieutenants. Bush looked haggard; was that how he would look if the shattered body beneath the sheet

were Hornblower’s? Once more Pellew was struck by the chilling awareness that Hornblower was not immune to pain and grisly death; that Martin’s fate might as easily have been his. But, when he continued, Pellew spoke with assurance and authority. “Captain Hornblower, you will accompany me.”  
Hornblower nodded, relieved. The questioning could wait, but the Catone  
could not and neither could Martin. “Mr Bush…”  
Bush could only watch with wide grey eyes.  
“Mr Bush, you have my permission to remain here.” With those words, Pellew turned and left the sick berth. Hornblower followed him.  
“Thank you, sir,” Bush murmured to himself.  
“Mr Orrock, signal the Catone to weigh anchor at once,” Pellew announced as he strode onto the quarterdeck. “Have a boat ready to take me over to her.”  
“Aye sir,” said Orrock.  
Pellew took off his coat and handed it to one of the young gentlemen, who would take it to his steward. “All that lace only gets in the way,” he said to Hornblower.  
“You’re going yourself, sir?”  
“Lieutenant Preece has never commanded anything bigger than a ship’s boat,” said Pellew. “I fear he’s out of his depth.”  
“I understand that,” said Hornblower. “But I expected I would assist—” “You’re quite welcome to join me.”  
Hornblower pressed his lips. Sometimes, it seemed that Edward deliberately misconstrued him. “I meant that I am quite capable of putting her ashore—”  
“—Without my assistance,” Pellew finished. “Yes, I know you are. You’d probably sail her to England if I asked you to—unless she was full of rice, eh Hornblower?” Pellew’s eyes danced. “But one advantage of being a yellow admiral is that I can get my hands dirty if it pleases me.” It was clear from his expression that Pellew spoke with a hefty measure of irony. “I believe that is what you were trying to tell me when I was carrying on like a nincompoop.”  
“Something like that.” Hornblower smiled. He was tremendously relieved that Edward had dispensed with all his obstinate negativity; even more so to hear him admit to it.  
“Then let’s put her ashore before we lose her.”

Hornblower felt mildly dizzy as he climbed into the waiting boat; it was little wonder, since he had been on his feet for the best part of two days. He had not even had a chance to change out of his uniform, which was blackened with powder and spattered with other men’s blood. The brief boat-trip was his only respite before he was plunged into action again, not against the enemy this time,

but against the invading sea and the weariness of the men. But Pellew had no intention of resting, even for a minute.  
“He’s got the anchor in. She’ll start drifting onshore the moment the topsails are set. We’ll steer her onto a clear stretch of sand.”  
“She’s very low in the water,” said Hornblower.  
“But we have two hundred fresh men to haul her out,” Pellew said almost gleefully: there was work yet for the New South Wales Corps.  
Soon the boat was beneath Catone’s main chains. A man was waiting there  
to catch a line. Hornblower was first to go aboard; the jump was scarcely half what it should have been, thanks to the water seeping uncontrollably into Catone’s hull.  
Pellew was a moment behind. “Shake out your topsails,” he said, spotting a figure in a lieutenant’s uniform: Preece, he presumed, though he could barely see him in the shadow of the mainmast.  
“It’s the admiral!” someone called out, finally recognising Pellew, who was without his coat and hat. The hands hurriedly saluted and some quick-minded petty officer managed a squeal on his whistle.  
“Enough of that nonsense!” said Pellew; at last he gave in to the instincts that impelled him to lay guns and raise signals himself. He did not want to be an admiral if that meant keeping aloof from the action. He knew exactly what had to be done and no punctilious sense of station would keep him from doing it. “Quartermaster, port your helm. We don’t want to strike Hotspur. And keep the pumps going! If she’s waterlogged we’ll never get her up the sand.”  
“Sand, sir?” said Preece.  
“We’re going to beach her,” said Pellew. In his efficiency, he had forgotten to mention that part of the plan. “We can’t risk losing the prize.”  
With her topsails set, the ponderous corvette was soon gaining way. “Starboard a little,” Pellew called as she cleared Hotspur’s quarter. “Midships.”  
Hornblower, meanwhile, was on the forecastle, checking for rocks or other obstacles, but all he could see was an arc of gleaming sand, bluish in the gloam.  
He went aft to report. “The beach is clear, as far as I can see.”  
“Good,” said Pellew. “We’ll bring her in gently.” He peered into the dark water. Already the first breakers were lapping at the ship’s bows. “Spill that topsail.” Catone slowed a little; the call of the leadsman told him that she had only a few feet of water under her now. “Back the mizzen top!” With the thrust of the wind neutralised, it was left to the surf to drive the corvette the last few feet onto the sand, where she came to rest with a muffled shudder.  
“We’re aground, sir,” Preece said flatly.  
“Thank you,” said Pellew. “Have tow lines laid out and the hands ready to go ashore. Damn it, where’s King?” The drifting ship had left the governor’s camp half a mile back along the beach.  
“Someone’s coming, sir,” said Hornblower. He could see two figures in shakoes hurrying along the beach.

“I trust they’re not deserters,” Pellew quipped.  
They were not. “The governor asks if you need assistance, sir,” one man asked in a broad Yorkshire accent. There had not been time to inform King of the plan; he must have been distressed to see one of the prizes calmly drift ashore.  
“Yes, tell him to bring his men up at once,” Pellew called down from the poop deck, which was now raked at a thirty degree angle to the beach. “The prize is damaged and we need to get her out of the water.”  
“Aye aye sir!” The men saluted and jogged back along the beach.  
Within twenty minutes the troops were ready. Pellew went ashore and gave the order to heave. “And heave!” He strode up and down alongside the lines of men. “Heave!”  
The Catone shifted, quickly at first, then more slowly as her hull dug into the soft sand. Hornblower was aboard, supervising the process from the other end of the line and struggling to keep his balance as the ship jolted and joggled up the incline. Beside him, Preece was staring forlornly at the sand passing her prow. “Hardly what I expected of my first command, sir.”  
“She was damaged when you boarded her,” said Hornblower, remembering the words that Edward had said to him, years ago. “There was nothing more you could have done.”  
“But what an ignominious end!” Preece sighed. “Sorry, sir.”  
“It might have been worse. At least the prize will be saved. She can be repaired and put to sea again.” The ship jerked forward; Hornblower put a hand on the rail to steady himself. “My first command went down mid-Channel.”  
Preece raised his eyebrows. “May I ask what happened, sir?” Hornblower smiled faintly. “She was holed. We were carrying rice and,  
well…”  
“Rice,” Preece said thoughtfully. “Rice swells up, sir.” “Yes,” said Hornblower. “It does.”

The corvette was fast aground. Pellew and Hornblower stood beside her, inspecting the work. Higher up the beach, the bulk of New South Wales Corps sat on the sand or set to work building fires. In the foreground, the prize crew and a party of soldiers were overseeing the disembarkation of the French prisoners through the hawse-hole.  
“The tide won’t budge her now sir,” said King, appearing at Pellew’s

elbow.

“No. And, from the look of it, she can be patched up.”  
“They say you were like the captain and the master and all the men, doing

everything at once!”  
Pellew coughed. “Not everything, captain.”  
King looked knowing. “I think the years have been kinder to you, sir, than they have to me.” But his paean was interrupted by some commotion on the ship.

“Easy, easy—‘e’s got a broken leg,” a sailor called to the soldiers waiting below to take the injured prisoner. Pellew winced, thinking the man might soon have two broken legs, but the soldiers were not so brutal as the governor suggested: they took him under the arms and lowered him gently to the sand.  
Pellew turned to King. “You’ll arrange a guard to prevent any of the prisoners from absconding.”  
“Or the troops, God forbid!” For once King spoke light-heartedly. “Though, from what I’ve seen, they wouldn’t want to.”  
“Very good,” said Pellew. Then he looked at Hornblower, who seemed to be falling asleep on his feet. In that moment, he dearly wanted to hold him, undress him, put him to bed—yes, and say good night. Pellew clasped his hands behind his back. “Well, you seem to have the situation in hand—”  
“Yes sir,” King hastened to agree.  
“Then Captain Hornblower and I will return to our ship.” Hornblower was roused by the sound of his name; he nodded wearily. “Good night, sir,” said King.  
“Good night,” said Pellew.

It was not yet nine o’clock when Pellew and Hornblower stepped back into the great cabin but it felt like days had passed since they left; the morning’s battle might have been another life.  
They found bread, cheese and wine on the table, the furniture restored to its proper places and the floor swept; Merrick’s doing, no doubt.  
“As if it never happened,” Hornblower said, sagging into a chair.  
Sometimes, he wished it were all just a bad dream.  
“Except for the window,” said Pellew. The breeze still blew through the glassless panes, making the candles flames flicker. “Well, this looks real enough.” He looked at the bread and cheese. “Or shall I call for something hot?”  
“I doubt I’ll be awake long enough to eat it,” said Hornblower. Edward was the only person in the world he would have told how tired he was.  
“Well, you must have something—you’ve hardly had a bite all day.” Pellew cut a piece of cheese and handed it to him with a thick chunk of bread.  
Sometimes he wondered how Hornblower made do without food or rest; he  
made do, when he had to, but he could not help worrying about Horatio.  
“I’m not hungry,” Hornblower replied, then realised that he was. He ate what Edward gave him, then more, and then the cheese without the bread. He had thought himself too tired to eat but the food revived him a little.  
“We never did have our dinner,” said Pellew, making himself a rustic sandwich.  
“I hope the men have had their supper.” Hornblower would drive himself until he was dizzy with hunger and fatigue, but he would not ask his crew to forgo both food and rest.

“White will have seen to it,” Pellew reassured him. White had rejoined the ship after the battle; he had been left in command when his captain went over to Catone. “He likes his food.”  
“Yes,” Hornblower sighed. Thinking of White inevitably made him think of Martin and Bush. “I ought to speak to the surgeon,” he said, though the thought made his stomach sink and his bones ache. “Mr Martin—”  
“You ought to rest,” Pellew said gently. “There’s nothing you can do.”  
“But I should say something.” A good captain said good words when good men died; Hornblower wanted to be that man but he could not think what to say.  
Pellew watched the turmoil in the young man’s eyes. He wished he could soothe him, as one soothed a child after a grazed knee or a frightening dream, but Hornblower was a grown man and his troubles no childish nightmare. “You may be too late for that,” he said softly.  
Hornblower nodded. They had come aboard with little ceremony; Bush was nowhere to be seen and the midshipman who met them had said nothing of Lieutenant Martin. Perhaps he knew nothing.  
“Besides which… Besides which, if he is still alive, I think Lieutenant Martin would wish to be with Mr Bush.” Pellew looked out across the starless bay. “I know that, if I were in his position—”  
Hornblower stared at him, wondering what he might mean, while his instincts told him what he must mean. “You think—”  
“I think you know what I think.” “They’re friends,” said Hornblower.  
“And I like to think that we would have been friends, as you put it, had we  
been lieutenants together.” Pellew lowered his voice. “We’re not alone, Horatio. We can’t be. I know we’re not.”  
Hornblower swallowed. He had always known there were other men like himself and Edward—men who loved each other—but he had never expected to find them in his own ship; fornication, perhaps, but not love, and certainly not in Mr Bush. It was difficult to digest. He had always thought of Bush as the kind of man married to the sea; the kind of man who would never know love besides what could be bought in portside taverns. But, now that Edward had said it, it made sense. That was why Martin and Bush could sit for hours without saying a word; that was why Bush had stuck by Martin’s side even in the face of a direct order; that was how Martin had managed to find his voice when the surgeon thought he had no right to be alive: because they were in love. Hornblower felt a hard lump rising in his throat.  
“Even if they don’t know it,” Pellew was saying. “Given time, I think they would have.”  
“Time.” The word slipped out before Hornblower could stop it. He bit his lip, lest it should start to tremble.  
“Horatio—”

“But that makes it worse!”  
Pellew took a deep breath. “Bush is stoical. He knows the cost of war.”  
Hornblower balled his fist so hard his nails bit in. He was determined not to weep.  
Pellew was quiet. He had taught Hornblower that an officer must be an example to his men, but not at the expense of his own feelings. Behind closed doors, in his private hours; that was the time for doubt and anger and grief. He let Hornblower be until he saw his shoulders slump. Then he placed one hand over his and opened it out so they were pressed palm to palm.  
Hornblower looked up. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m tired… I don’t know what I’m saying.”  
“Don’t be sorry.” Pellew squeezed his hand. “Martin is a great loss, as is every man who gives his life in the performance of his duty. But that is war, Horatio, and however hard it seems—however unjust—we must accept that there is nothing we can do save what is best for those who live.”  
Hornblower nodded; he might have been a young midshipman again and  
Hyacinth the Indefatigable.  
“There is nothing we can do for Lieutenant Martin,” Pellew went on. “Nor can we take away the pain that Mr Bush will feel. But perhaps we can help him to see through that grief. We captured a fine frigate today—a few shot-holes in her, perhaps, and short a few spars, but the Navy’s always in want of frigates.  
Hornblower’s eyes widened as he began to recognise another time and place: not the Indy, but the prison hospital in Kingston.  
“Yes,” said Pellew. “I’ll need a prize crew for the Consul and Mr Bush is  
the senior lieutenant, if he’s willing, and if you’re willing to spare him—” “Of course,” said Hornblower. “I think he’ll be honoured.”

Martin was buried the next day in the clearing where the French had pitched their camp. Pellew performed the service, Hornblower read from the Bible and the ship’s carpenter—overworked as he was—did not complain about putting his chisels to a monument for Martin and the other men. Midshipman Blanche, who had some skill with pencil and paper, produced a sketch of the grave site—“pretty as any in England,” he said—and copied it for the officers’ families. The other widows, children and parents would have only the assurance that their men had died in battle, fighting in their country’s cause.  
“Thank you, sir,” Bush said afterwards, grasping Hornblower’s hand. “Thank you—and thank you too, sir,” he told Pellew, who had informed him just before the service that he would command the Consul. But it was as clear as it had been for Hornblower three years earlier that no command could ever compensate for the loss of a dear friend. When Hornblower looked at Bush, he thought the light had gone out of his eyes.

Hornblower left after the service while Pellew remained to speak with the other captains. He was grey-faced when he returned, his head full of the Lord’s Prayer and the list of dead men, relentless as a drum. He went straight to the decanter and poured a large glass of port. “Hornblower?” he offered.  
“Thank you but I’ll have coffee.” Hornblower was sitting at the table, working on his report.  
Pellew stood by the window to drink his wine; for some time there was no sound but the gentle creaking of the anchor cables and the squeaking of Hornblower’s quill. Even the work parties who had laboured all morning were quiet; the repairs had been halted out of respect for the dead.  
“Forty of ours in the ground,” Pellew said at last. “Seventeen of them  
Hotspur’s.”  
Hornblower winced. The Hotspur’s crew was a little over a hundred; that was a lot of men to lose in one morning and yet win the engagement. “How was Captain Walton?”  
“Not well. I couldn’t say whether it was that arm or the casualty list that was troubling him the most—but what could he do, with a frigate on one side and the corvette on the other?”  
“Yes.” Hornblower set down his pen. “What about Captain Pellew?” “It’s a wonder he didn’t lose more, the way he was fighting!”  
“But it was effective,” said Hornblower. He hated to think what state  
Hyacinth might be in, were it not for Pygmalion’s timely intervention. “True—and, had he not lost his lieutenant, I’d say his casualties were  
light. But he must not let courage run over into carelessness—the fool boy said he’s sorry not to have a scar to show for it! I told him Captain Walton will be lucky if he has two arms to show for it.” Pellew drained his glass. “You were never so hot-headed, were you Hornblower?”  
“I hope not.” He took risks—risks that more cautious men might well consider reckless—but he was not proud of his scars.  
“No,” said Pellew. He poured himself another glass. “He’s been at sea long enough to have pulled his head out of the clouds by now.”  
Hornblower remembered what Pownoll had told him: that command of a ship was not all he looked for in life; that he owed his career to his father; that the right woman might see him leave it all behind. He wondered if Pownoll had told his father that he planned to marry Miss Pitt; he wondered if Edward would call that wishful thinking.  
Pellew sighed and joined Hornblower at the table. “Sometimes I wonder if I ought to have brought my other boy.”  
“Fleetwood?” The name still sounded foreign to Hornblower.  
“Yes,” Pellew said fondly. “He’s a fine boy—a true sailor, hardworking and a good deal less giddy than Pown. I think the two of you would have run on well together.”  
“You thought Pownoll and I would.”

“I hoped you would.” Pellew studied his glass; the rim was chipped. “I see I was fond and foolish.”  
Hornblower looked out the window, where he could just see Pygmalion’s stern. He wondered how to tell Edward that he would never be friends with his son; not after that last night at Government House.  
“Did you fight?” Pellew asked, as if he had read his mind. Hornblower blinked. “Why do you ask?”  
“Only because you had that cut on your lip, the day we left Sydney—and I don’t think you once looked him in the eye at dinner.”  
As so often, Pellew gave the impression of knowing more than he possibly could—surely Pownoll had not told him anything—and Hornblower did not know how to reply. “It was a very small bed,” he said unsteadily. “He struck me accidentally.”  
“I see,” said Pellew. “Then I should tell him to be more careful—” “Please don’t. It was nothing.”  
“I won’t.” Pellew gave him a long look. “Just as long as that’s all he did  
accidentally.”  
“Edward…” Hornblower rolled his eyes. He wished Edward would not joke about him and Pownoll; it seemed inappropriate and uncomfortably close to the truth.  
Pellew did not dwell on the point. A little levity helped, after two exhausting days, but there were serious matters to attend to. He sipped his wine and set down his glass. “Now, about our guest…”  
Hornblower let out a long breath; Pellew’s words came as a relief. “Captain Louis de Freycinet,” he said, turning back through the pages of his report. “He was a lieutenant in Captain Baudin’s expedition, appointed commander of the Casuarina. Before he left France, it seems he was working with François Péron on the charts that were intercepted in Paris.”  
“So he would be familiar with Péron’s plan.”  
Hornblower nodded. “That’s why he’s here, I’m sure of it—though it would seem there has been a change of plan since the Admiralty got hold of the document.”  
“Indeed. What does the captain say?”  
“That he and the other ships were on their way to Mauritius—” “—And they accidentally hauled that cannon up Long Nose Point?” “And they stopped in the bay for water and repairs,” said Hornblower.  
“It’s common enough to put up defences while refitting.”  
“But not to do it on the doorstep of the only English port for thousands of

miles.”

“No,” said Hornblower. “And I don’t believe him for a minute.” “But why bother lying, if we’re already privy to the plan?”  
“Perhaps he wishes to distance himself from Péron—or perhaps he does

not know that the plan was uncovered.”

“Hmm. What if you tell him we have the plan, the charts—even show them to him? They’re no use to him now that we have his ships.”  
“I was going to ask if I might do just that.”  
“Do it,” said Pellew. “He can hardly say then that it was a scientific expedition!”  
“No,” said Hornblower. “But there is something else I would like to try first: I would like to interview the captain of the Rapide—Captain Freycinet’s elder brother.”  
“Indeed?” With two sons and a brother in the service, Pellew was conscious of the fact that a man ought never be promoted ahead of his younger brother.  
Hornblower nodded. “Louis-Henri de Freycinet. He was Baudin’s first lieutenant on Géographe.”  
“He might well be worth talking to.”  
“And the other French officers. I suggest that I do so tomorrow.”  
“By all means,” said Pellew. “It would be gratifying to know at last why exactly we came here, though I hope the question is academic—I don’t think Boney will invade Sydney now.”  
“No,” said Hornblower.  
“No.” Pellew swirled his port slowly, watching the viscous liquid lick the glass. “I think he underestimated the resourcefulness of the governor.” For all his doubts about King, the governor had taken two crucial steps in sending a party to Van Diemen’s Land and sounding the alarm in Whitehall. “And the resourcefulness of the Admiralty,” he added grudgingly.  
“Or the resourcefulness of Admiral Pellew,” said Hornblower.  
“Now that’s just flattery, and I don’t know what you hope to gain by it— victorious or no, I’m still commander-in-chief of the smallest station in the known world!”  
“But not for long, with the French fleet in British hands.” Pellew snorted. “I should bloody well hope not!”

“Captain Hornblower,” Pownoll greeted his guest as he came aboard. “Captain Pellew,” Hornblower nodded.  
“You’re here to speak with Captain Freycinet.” “Yes.”  
“I’ll have him brought up.” “Thank you.”  
Neither man quite met the other’s eyes, nor said any more than he needed to as they walked to Pownoll’s cabin. It was in a good state of repair, given the pounding Pygmalion had taken, and smelled faintly of sandalwood. Hornblower tried not to look too obviously at the objects that adorned it: a few books, unbound, and a folio sheet covered with all manner of blots and flourishes; a

watercolour of Lady Pellew—Hornblower recognised her from the portrait Edward kept—and a stuffed platypus that he must have bought ashore.  
“I have questioned him myself,” Pownoll said, with an air that suggested he thought Hornblower’s visit unnecessary, never mind the admiral’s orders.  
“And what did he tell you?” Hornblower asked courteously; he already knew from what Edward had told him that Pownoll’s French was vastly better than his father’s but not as good as his.  
“What they all say,” said Pownoll. “That they were on their way to Mauritius; that they stopped here for repairs.”  
“What repairs, in particular?”  
“I asked that,” Pownoll hastened to reply. “He said the Consul lost her mast in a squall.”  
“Did she?” said Hornblower. “That’s not what I heard.” Pownoll was defensive. “That’s what he told me.”  
“I’m sure it is—only his brother told me it was Rapide that lost her spars.”  
Pownoll arched his brow. “Someone didn’t get his story straight!” “They’ve not had a chance to speak to each other,” said Hornblower. “Or  
perhaps they wouldn’t agree.”  
“I’m sure,” said Pownoll. “Reminds me of my brother and I.”  
Pownoll spoke fondly. Hornblower wondered whether he would feel differently if he knew what Edward had said about Fleetwood; he wondered if Henri Freycinet was jealous of his brother or whether he was wasting his time on a useless theory. He looked Pownoll in the eye as he replied, “I hope, after today, they will have made up their minds.”  
Pownoll nodded and called for the guard at the door to send the prisoner in. He appeared with a marine on each side. “Capitaine Freycinet,” said Pownoll; “Captain Hornblower.”  
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Hornblower told the Frenchman. “The pleasure is mine,” Freycinet replied. Unlike his brother, he sounded  
almost as if he meant it.  
Now Hornblower looked at Pownoll, who showed no signs of leaving. He cursed inwardly; working with Pownoll was awkward enough as it was. “Captain, I’m afraid I must ask… that is, I feel it would be better if—”  
Pownoll saw Hornblower’s eyes on the door. “If I were to leave?”  
“While I question the captain, yes—that he might be at liberty to consider his answers.”  
Pownoll understood. He made a cursory bow and departed.  
Hornblower looked at the French captain. His hair was a shade darker and his brow a little heavier than his younger brother but they were much alike. Henri, however, had survived the battle without a scratch on him. “A seat, monsieur,” Hornblower suggested, drawing back his own.  
“Merci.”

They sat facing one another, at Pownoll’s polished walnut table. It too had escaped without a scratch. Hornblower asked, in French, what Rapide and the other ships were doing in the bay. He was surprised when Freycinet replied in English.  
“I have nothing to tell you. I have already explained everything to Capitaine Pellew.”  
“Captain Pellew is not here,” said Hornblower. “I would be much obliged if you could explain to me.”  
“The frigate Consul was in need of repairs.”  
“Pardon me, captain, but I may have misunderstood: you mean the  
Rapide?”  
“The Consul,” said Freycinet emphatically. “I know my own ship, captain.” “Of course,” Hornblower said smoothly. “You must pardon my  
confusion—your brother told me that your ship was damaged.”  
Freycinet scoffed. “Never trust a man who has taken a blow to the head, captain.” Perhaps there was some rivalry between the two brothers; at any rate, Henri did not seem particularly concerned for Louis’ health.  
Hornblower nodded sympathetically. “I fear your brother is not himself— indeed he told me so, when I spoke to him.” He waited to see that he had Freycinet’s full attention before adding, “There was more he wanted to tell me but his health prevented him. He said that you, perhaps, could explain to me.”  
“Explain what, captain?” “His orders, his plans.”  
Freycinet merely raised his eyebrows.  
His bluff was called, so Hornblower played his ace. “The charts he gave

me.”

“Cartes?”  
“Yes.” Hornblower whipped Péron’s map from his pocket. “Voilà.” Hornblower studied the Frenchman’s face as Freycinet studied the chart.

He was gambling on that chart being the same as the one Louis Freycinet had destroyed when his ship was boarded, and on his companion not knowing that the a copy had been stolen by British spies. The look of dismay in Freycinet’s eyes told him his guess was correct.  
“He gave you this?” Hornblower nodded.  
“Mon frère est faible!” Freycinet muttered.  
“Then perhaps you can help me: I was particularly interested in this part, here—an interesting choice of name!” Hornblower pointed to the section of coast labelled TERRE NAPOLEON. “And this detail—very interesting.” He indicated the inset plan of Port Jackson’s defences.  
Freycinet looked up sharply. “It is as we saw it, three years ago.” “And when you fixed upon your plan of invading the British colony?”  
“I make no plans, captain. I merely construct charts and follow orders.”

“Then who did make the plans?” said Hornblower. “I do not think Bonaparte such a fool. Was it Admiral Linois, perhaps? Or Captain Baudin? Or was it his assistant gunner, François Péron?”  
Freycinet said nothing.  
“Not a very good plan,” Hornblower pressed on, his pulse quickening. “A reckless plan, do you agree? You might as well tell me, since it’s quite clear it will come to nothing now.”  
“I follow my orders,” said Freycinet.  
“And what were your orders?” said Hornblower. He leaned halfway across the table. “What were you doing in this bay?”  
For a minute, Freycinet met Hornblower’s gaze in stony silence. Then he seemed to accept that Hornblower knew everything he needed to know already. “I think it perfectly obvious,” he sighed.  
“It is not obvious to me.”  
“Just the same as you Englishmen,” said Freycinet. “And what is that?” Hornblower asked patiently.  
“We wished an outpost for ourselves on this great continent.”  
“But sir, this continent is the territory of King George!” Hornblower found himself repeating his words to Louis Freycinet; he hoped Henri would not reprise his brother’s obstinacy. But Henri was more forthright.  
“By what right?” he said, his Gallic eyes keeping a fierce grip on Hornblower’s.  
Hornblower hesitated. How did he answer a question that had exercised philosophers for thousands of years? “Because this territory has been claimed in the name of the King of England,” he replied perfunctorily; the particulars were better left to scholars, diplomats and lawyers.  
“But you did not discover it.”  
“Captain James Cook discovered this place in 1770.”  
“This place, yes.” Freycinet was prepared to concede Cook’s achievement, if not Flinders’. “But what of the west coast? What of Van Diemen’s Land?  
What of the Terre Napoléon mapped and charted for the first time by our expedition?”  
Hornblower’s lips wrestled each other over repressed expletives. “We were the first to settle here.”  
“And do you, by settling on this little strip of coast, make yourselves masters of the whole continent?” Freycinet almost rose from his seat in agitation. “By what right, captain?”  
Hornblower’s eyes narrowed. “By what right does Bonaparte make himself master of Europe?”  
At last Freycinet faltered; he took a deep breath and dropped back in his seat. “Bonaparte is fighting—we are fighting—for the liberty of France against British aggression; against the monopoly of the sea, of trade, and of the very earth—”

“By invading this place?”  
“No, captain. We do not invade that which is not owned. You were invading when you brought your ships into this bay.”  
“We brought our ships to defend our territory.” Hornblower spoke through gritted teeth. “To defend what is ours against an empire-building tyrant!”  
“Yours? Yours exclusively?” Freycinet smiled smugly. “And you call us the  
empire-builders!”


	17. Chapter 17

Hornblower looked drawn when he returned to Hyacinth. The questioning had only confirmed what he already suspected, and he resented Freycinet for making him question himself: it was easier to fight for a cause if he did not examine it too closely.  
“What’s the matter?” Pellew asked when he walked into the great cabin. “Nothing,” Hornblower sighed, throwing his hat on the table.  
“What did he say?” From the look on Hornblower’s face, Pellew might have thought the French planned to march on London tomorrow.  
“Nothing we didn’t know already,” said Hornblower. “The French actually planned to make a base here! What they hoped to achieve, I don’t think even Captain Freycinet knows.” To Hornblower’s mind, the plan was madness.  
Pellew felt the same way. The cleft between his brows sharpened. “He told  
you that?”  
“Not without a sermon on the righteousness of conquest—but yes, that’s what he told me.”  
Pellew shook his head in disbelief. “Arrogance and stupidity! I cannot believe even Bonaparte would waste four ships and God knows how many lives on an absurd exercise in senseless provocation—unless he has some pressing reason for wanting rid of Captain Freycinet!” After all, he had thought Lord Melville capable of wasting four ships on getting rid of him.  
“I think Bonaparte would have found a more efficient way.” “Indeed.”  
“However, I suspect the voyage had less to do with Bonaparte and more to do with François Péron.”  
“What, has he declared himself Emperor as well?”  
“No.” Hornblower smiled. “But he was commissioned to write the account of Baudin’s voyage and the invasion plan that we read. We can only presume that this plan was his as well.”  
“And not a very good one,” said Pellew. “Well, if nothing else, it will make interesting reading for the Admiralty—I’m sending my report with the Lady Nelson tomorrow morning. With any luck, there will be a trader in Sydney and, God willing, we might have our recall this time next year!” Pellew was exaggerating, but only slightly: it might be six months before his report even reached England.

“What about the prisoners?” asked Hornblower.  
“I’ll write to India. If Troubridge has managed anything we’ll be able to exchange them. I hope to send the first ships before the week’s out—the prizes, if they’re ready. Captain Bush has promised me Consul.”  
“Then you’ll have her,” said Hornblower. Bush had done an admirable job with the frigate: her new mast was already in place and the prize crew were hard at work on her port side, which Hyacinth had left full of shot-holes.  
“Saint Sauveur barely took a shot,” Pellew went on. “And, if Rapide can be patched up, between them they might take the healthy prisoners off our hands— ”  
“Only the three ships?” said Hornblower. He did not like the idea of sending three ships full of French prisoners all the way to India with just the prize crews between them and freedom.  
“Do you think I’m mad as well?” said Pellew. “They’ll need an escort, of course.”  
From the way Pellew was looking at him, Hornblower could only assume he meant Hyacinth. “I shall certainly be ready to sail—”  
“What, and I’ll shift my flag into a sloop, will I?” Pellew shook his head. “Not you. Walton, if he’s well enough. Or Pownoll.”

Hornblower was undressing for bed when he heard a soft tap on his door. He was surprised to see Edward; it was only the second time he had come to his cabin. He gestured quickly for him to come in. The wardroom was deserted and White was on watch, but still he was wary.  
“Nothing’s the matter?” Hornblower whispered.  
“No,” said Pellew; they said no more. It was clear why he had come.  
Hornblower stripped down to his shirt, Pellew to his drawers. The canvass creaked as they climbed into it. Hornblower tried to remember the last time he and Edward had shared a cot; he was not quite used to the closeness. There seemed to be too many knees and too many elbows but somehow it felt wonderful.  
Pellew put his hand on Hornblower’s hip, beneath his shirt. Horatio was acutely aware of the warm shape of it there; an offer, a suggestion, an idea. He held his breath; he heard Edward’s close to his ear and was surprised by how eagerly his body responded. Edward’s hand moved around his waist, over his belly, trailing ticklishly through the scanty hair below his navel, then down, his reach bringing their close-pressed bodies closer still, with only a thin layer of linen between them.  
An offer, an idea. Horatio laid his hand over Edward’s, stopping it just  
short of its goal; thinking that only yesterday he had buried fifteen of his men. How could he indulge himself now? But then Edward began to kiss him; his hair, his neck, his ear. It was easy not to think about Martin and the others and damned Captain Freycinet when Edward kissed him like that. So he let him

touch him, too. It was easy, peaceful, more like healing than lustful passion. Perhaps it was just what he needed; it was what he had wanted, that last night in Sydney, before the events of a week made him forget how to want. Only once he was satisfied did he realise how much he had wanted it. Hornblower rolled over, his cheek on Edward’s chest, and slept better than he had for days.  
“Asleep already?” Pellew whispered, ruffling his hair.  
Horatio seemed to smile in his sleep. For Edward, that was satisfaction.

Hornblower woke alone. The grey light from beneath the door told him what his watch confirmed: he had slept late. But he did not chide himself as he ordinarily would have, for there was no pressing business that required his attention. Wounded men would not be healed nor damaged rigging repaired any faster for his being there or not, and there were no courses to plot, attacks to plan, nor even reports to write beyond those he had already sent off. All he had to do was wait while his men did their jobs.  
For a while Hornblower lay on his back, listening to the sounds of the ship and the gentle swell lapping her sides. The rap of the hammer had replaced the rasp of the holystone but, besides that, nothing in the lively morning noises betrayed anything of the battle fought just days before. It was as though the ship was a living thing recovering from her wounds: as new spars went up and shot- holes were patched over, so too did the men’s spirits improve. Hornblower noticed the change in himself as well, as the events of a few days earlier faded into twelve years of war. Perhaps he had Edward to thank for that, he thought, his hand straying to the site of the past night’s pleasure. When he got out of bed, he was amused to find he had not been entirely selfish: there were two stains on his nightshirt, one in his lap and one on his hip.  
Hornblower washed himself from the basin next to the door; he could hardly take men from the repair work, short-crewed as he was, because he fancied a bath. He dressed himself and went to Pellew’s cabin; they were in the habit of taking breakfast together, when they were both aboard the flagship.  
He found Pellew up, dressed and deep in thought, though the desk before him was bare. “Good morning,” he said when Hornblower appeared. “There’s coffee in the pot; your breakfast is keeping warm in the galley.”  
“Thank you,” said Hornblower. He helped himself to coffee, as quietly as he could, but didn’t venture to ask where Merrick might be found to bring his breakfast. Edward seemed preoccupied; Hornblower quickly dismissed his half- formed idea of a little morning love-making. Instead he stood by the window, drinking coffee and taking in the scene from the frigate’s stern. The wind had turned a few points overnight and swung the ships at anchor so the full length of Pygmalion was in view from Hyacinth’s quarter-gallery.  
“How’s she looking?” Pellew asked, joining him by the window. “Pygmalion?” Hornblower squinted at the tiny figures on her deck and in  
her rigging. “No t’gallants yet. There’s a party painting her main-wale.”

Pellew looked. “Very pretty. But is she seaworthy? You saw her yesterday.” “I think so, once her yards are crossed.”  
“Hmm.”  
Hornblower sipped his coffee—it was a little cold—thinking how much more he would enjoy it with a plate of eggs and sausages. Pellew looked out the window; Hornblower could see the blue sky reflected in his deep brown eyes.  
Then he turned and looked at Hornblower.  
“In that case, be so good as to invite her captain to dinner this evening.” “Yes,” said Hornblower, catching himself just short of adding ‘sir’. It was  
unusual for Pellew to be so officious, especially first thing in the morning. “And have Captain Bush come as well,” Pellew added. “Have him come  
an hour later. There is much to arrange, but I wish to speak to Captain Pellew first.” Hornblower started towards the door, but Pellew had not finished. “He’ll have to go to India. I had word this morning: Captain Walton is no better and, even if he recovers, I won’t risk him on the voyage, not with the heat and the India flux.”  
“Of course.”  
“Well, that leaves Pygmalion for an escort.”  
Hornblower nodded. “I’ll inform him immediately.” He set down his cup and headed once more for the door, but he stopped with his hand on the knob when he remembered what Pownoll had said that night when they lay in bed together: he hoped to marry Miss Pitt. “Edward…”  
“Mm?”  
Hornblower bit the inside of his lip. What could he say? Pownoll had spoken in confidence yet, if he meant what he said, surely Edward would know it eventually, while to say nothing might see Pownoll’s plans and the lady’s hopes destroyed.  
“Well don’t stand there mumbling, what’s the matter?”  
“Miss Pitt,” Hornblower said, telling himself that Pownoll would have wanted him to say it.  
Pellew frowned. “What about her?” “Your son… he plans to marry her.”  
“What?” It was impossible to tell whether Pellew was surprised or  
incensed—but he could not have been so surprised. “What makes you think that?”  
“He told me.”  
Pellew gave him a long look. “Hornblower, you do know that sometimes, when a young man talks about a woman, what he really wants is—”  
“No,” said Hornblower. He was annoyed that Edward should think him so naïve, even if he was blushing. “He wants to do that too—but he told me he wants to marry her.” It was ironic that Hornblower, having never felt anything for a woman since he learned what love felt like, should find himself defending

marriage to his married lover, but he could not help sympathising with Pownoll—even if he would have preferred to see him far away.  
Pellew shook his head. “Will he never learn?” He was quiet for a while but his eyes betrayed the wrangle running through his mind. “Has he told her? Has he asked her to marry him?”  
“I don’t think so.” Pownoll had said he would ask his father first. “Well, that’s something.”  
“But why?” said Hornblower. “Why should they not marry?” Pellew looked at him as though he were speaking a foreign language but he would not be silenced so easily: he did not see why Edward objected so strongly to Miss Pitt; more than that, he did not see why a father should hold sway over his son— his adult son—in matters of the heart.  
“Really, Hornblower! It would hardly be appropriate, or practical—” “Why?”  
“Because she’s a penniless nobody—never mind this Mr Matcham—and he’ll be a baronet one day!”  
“What does that matter?”  
“I want him to marry properly—.”  
“—Properly or property?” Hornblower’s eyes flashed. “What is improper about marrying for love?”  
“What business is it of yours?” Pellew snapped. “What do you know about marriage?”  
“I know who I would marry, if I had the choice.”  
It took Pellew a moment to recognise the burning ardour that lay behind Hornblower’s icy words. When he did, it struck him to the heart. “Horatio, I—”  
“—Only I didn’t believe he could be so callous.” Hornblower turned away.  
His cheeks were red-hot. He knew he sounded hysterical but he was appalled, not just by Pownoll’s plight but by Edward’s hypocrisy: how could he could pity Bush and Martin but not his son? How could be betray his wife, take up with one of his officers, and then forbid Pownoll to marry because the lady had not the money or the name to satisfy his pride? He loved whom he loved, despite all society’s strictures; how could he deny his own son?  
“Horatio…” Pellew let out a long breath. “Horatio, you misunderstand me.” Hornblower did not turn his head, so Pellew moved around him until they were face to face. “Horatio, I understand. Of course I want my son to be happy and I know that…” He caught Hornblower’s hand. “I know that love is the most precious thing in the world, and I would not deny him if I thought he really were in love.” Hornblower’s lips moved, perhaps to protest, so Pellew pressed on, “But you don’t know him as I do. You don’t know his infatuations! There was nearly a scandal before we left England—but I suppose he never mentioned her?”  
“No,” Hornblower confessed. From the way Pownoll spoke, Miss Pitt might have been his first and only love.

“No,” said Pellew. “Nor any of the others! I expect he’s forgotten them all—as he will forget Miss Pitt with the spray of a long cruise behind him. He’s only twenty-four, by God, no more than a boy.” He looked Hornblower in the eye. “If I’m wrong, he can write to her—he can send for her and I will do nothing to prevent them marrying. He’s headstrong enough to do it, no matter what I say. But, if I’m right and this is another of his passing fancies, he may thank me in time. The lady may thank me.” He squeezed Hornblower’s hand. “Now, do you think that’s fair? Or am I being callous?”  
“No,” Hornblower sighed. Perhaps Edward was right about Miss Pitt, perhaps he wasn’t, but either way he was right on one count: that if Pownoll truly loved her, he would find a way. He and Edward had conquered greater odds.  
Pellew sighed as well. “I don’t want to send him, you know. I wish I didn’t have to. But the prizes need an escort and he’s the only choice.”  
Hornblower moved closer. “I can go, if you want to keep him with you.” “I’d much rather have you.” Pellew looked at him with unconcealed  
adoration. “But it’s not just that. Troubridge is in India. He’s sold his soul to Lord Melville and I fear he’ll treat Pownoll no better than they treated me— cheat us all out of prize-money if he can, I wouldn’t put it past him! I don’t want my boy to suffer for his father’s enmities. And I have to think of his feelings: I couldn’t make him my flag captain but I promised him a place in my fleet. He’ll be hurt if I send him away—he’ll think I preferred to keep you and he’ll be right.” Pellew ran his eye over Hornblower in his post-captain’s uniform. “He’s terribly jealous of you, did he tell you?”  
“No,” said Hornblower. “Quite the opposite.”  
“Well, that’s Pownoll. He’s proud. He can’t bear to be weaker than anyone else. He had to follow his Pa into the Navy because that’s what we planned for Fleetwood. Sometimes I’m not even sure he wanted to.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower. He would not repeat Pownoll’s words on that point—he had broken one confidence already—but he saw now that Edward knew his son better than even Pownoll realised.

Pownoll came aboard at three-thirty. He showed none of the aloofness Hornblower had seen aboard Pygmalion now that he was a guest on Hornblower’s ship. If he said little, it was because he was anxious about what his meeting with his father—“The Admiral”, as he called him—might entail.  
They met in private, leaving Hornblower to walk his quarterdeck until Bush arrived. He took the opportunity to inspect the day’s work: the new planking where an eighteen-pounder had plunged through the gunwale; the rake of the re-rigged topmast; the number two gun lugged back on its truck. He was pleased to find his ship ready to fight another battle; he was more pleased to know she didn’t need to.

He stopped by the skylight above the great cabin; not eavesdropping—not consciously—only curious to know what was transpiring below. But he would have to wait until dinner to find out, for he could not hear a word.  
Eight bells tolled and the first dog watch began. Heavy work stopped for the day; instead men fetched rations for their mess while others gathered on deck. Hornblower could smell food cooking in the galley. Not the men’s salt pork, surely; that was garlic he could smell. Edward must have called for an especially fine meal. Unfortunately for Hornblower, he did not care for garlic and neither, he imagined, did Bush, but Edward and his son had more exotic tastes.  
Half an hour later Bush’s gig appeared, creeping towards Hyacinth like a  
water-boatman. Hornblower was there to greet him when he came aboard, not through the entry port but over the side like a true sailor.  
“Captain Bush,” Hornblower said with an unforced grin.  
“Captain Hornblower.” Bush was smiling, too; a vast improvement on the last time Hornblower had seen him, drawn and grey-faced after Martin’s funeral. “The admiral is still with Captain Pellew,” Hornblower explained. “But, if  
you’d care to renew your acquaintance with the wardroom, I can offer you a glass of wine?”  
“With pleasure, sir,” said Bush.  
They went below, Bush remarking on Hyacinth’s speedy repairs; Hornblower asking after Consul’s. Bush was typically modest, given the state his ship was in when she struck her colours and the size of the prize-crew he was working with.  
“I trust the prisoners have been behaving themselves?” Hornblower said genially; it was a pleasure to see Bush again—the wardroom had seemed forlorn without him or Martin—and he was pleased to see Bush at his ease. Too often they carried on as lieutenant and captain but, now Bush had command of a ship, Hornblower hoped they could speak as friends.  
Bush laughed. “We get them to work sir, one way or another!” He swigged his wine. “When the admiral gives the word, we’ll be ready.”  
Soon enough Pellew did give the word: that dinner was served.Walking into the great cabin, it was impossible to tell what Pellew had said to his son. But, as conversation spread around the dinner-table, dishes were unveiled and glasses drained, it became clear that Pownoll had not taken it badly; indeed, he seemed enthusiastic about the upcoming voyage.  
“We could be ready Sunday,” he said. “We could be ready tomorrow.” “Now now, there’s no need for such haste,” said Pellew, helping himself to  
a slice of pork pie. “There are the troops to go aboard first—” “Well, yes, that of course,” said Pownoll, mildly flustered.  
“—And a little forethought can save a good deal of strife later.” He passed the pie to Hornblower. “You’ll have to stop in Sydney for supplies; that much is certain.” Pellew paused for an instant; the look he and Pownoll exchanged made Hornblower wonder if there was some additional reason for the stop in Sydney.

But the reason he gave was good enough: “From what Mr Bush told me, the French stores are not much to speak of.” He looked at Bush, who nodded.  
“Not enough to get the men to India, sir; not with flesh on their bones and teeth in their skulls.”  
Pellew winced. “And certainly not enough to get home—I noted as much in my report to the Admiralty.”  
Hornblower nodded: that was additional evidence, if any were needed, that the French were not merely passing through; either that or it was evidence of incompetence.  
“And that is another reason for divesting ourselves of the Corps at the same time,” Pellew went on, cutlery poised mid-air. “Our own provisions, that is: we can’t keep two hundred troops here much more than a week.”  
“We wouldn’t want to,” said Pownoll. “Half the garrison’s sitting on the beach—I expect the governor’s nervous.”  
“That was his sentiment when I spoke to him yesterday.” Pellew looked at his son, then at Bush. “I told him I hoped you would be ready to sail in two days’ time.” It was a question.  
“Yes sir,” said Pownoll.  
“We’ll be ready, sir,” said Bush.  
It was polite to wait until the conclusion of a meal to discuss ship’s business, but there was no chance of that in the present company. So Pellew went on about embarking the New South Wales Corps and the prisoners and the wounded men from both sides, and Bush and Pownoll listened and nodded and made suggestions. It seemed to Hornblower that Bush sounded more dependable than Pownoll, for all his enthusiasm; indeed, more than once during the conversation, Pownoll deferred to his opinion of how many men could be quartered on each ship and how long it might take to reach India, never mind that he outranked Bush.  
That raised something of a quandary: Pownoll was the senior captain and, as such, could expect to command the larger ship on the voyage to India, but Pellew had not said a word about transferring Pownoll to the frigate. It would be inefficient if not impracticable to do so, though Hornblower knew some men would not consider that an adequate excuse. But Pownoll did not appear to be suffering from wounded pride, either on that count or in the matter of Miss Pitt. If anything, he seemed cockier than usual: he had come aboard humbly calling his father Admiral Pellew but now he did not hesitate to omit the ‘sir’ when he spoke or reach across his father for the gravy-boat. Hornblower was confused; he wondered what Edward had said to smooth the situation.  
The explanation did not emerge until the end of the meal when port was brought out and Pellew proposed a toast: to the King, to the voyage ahead, and “To the Navy’s newest captain.”  
At first Hornblower thought he meant Bush—for a moment, it looked as though Bush thought he meant Bush—but, when Pellew got to his feet and

unpinned the epaulette from Pownoll’s left shoulder, it was clear what had happened: he had compensated for any possible slight by making his son post- captain.  
“Why, congratulations sir!” said Bush, beaming.  
Damn Bush, Hornblower thought, did he always have to be so selfless?  
He ought to have been offended and he didn’t realise it. He deserved promotion more than Pownoll did, yet there he was, shaking the new captain’s hand without a hint of resentment. Hornblower was actually angry with Bush for being so magnanimous; it was easier to be angry with Bush than to decide for himself what he thought. Post-captain at twenty-four? He did not think Pownoll had earned it—he doubted Pownoll thought he had earned it—but Edward had his reasons and, as commander-in-chief on a distant station, it was within his power to promote whomever he liked. It was a clever way of resolving a delicate situation, Hornblower supposed: Bush would have the bigger ship and Pownoll would have his promotion. But it seemed unfair to Bush and Hornblower could not help but think it cheapened his own position: was his promotion, like Pownoll’s, owed purely to nepotism?  
But that was the way the navy worked, Hornblower told himself; it would be hypocritical to begrudge Pownoll his posting. So he shook his hand, expressed his felicitations, and proposed another toast: “To Captain Pellew—and to Captain Bush”.

Boats were waiting to collect Pownoll and Bush. Pellew remained below—he would visit Pygmalion before she sailed—but Hornblower went on deck to bid them farewell. Pownoll was first to depart. The boat’s crew raised a cheer as he climbed into the stern sheets; perhaps some keen-eyed sailor had spotted the epaulette on his right shoulder, though Hornblower would not have been surprised to learn that Pownoll had pointed it out. He was proud of his appointment, never mind that he owed it to his father; never mind what he had said on the evening of the ball at Government House.  
“Captain Hornblower.” “Captain Bush.”  
The two men studied each other. They were both aware that this might be the last time they saw each other. In two days Consul would set sail; she would be on her way to Madras before Hyacinth left Jervis’ Bay. What would happen then was deeply uncertain. Troubridge needed frigates in India and, in all likelihood, Consul would be purchased for the service. Bush would then either be sent back to Sydney or found a post in the Indies; perhaps even a ship of his own, if he was not too deeply tainted by his ties to Pellew. Reluctant as he was to part with his friend and first lieutenant, Hornblower hoped Bush would be promoted. But even if he was sent back, it would be months before he returned to Sydney.  
Hornblower was not sure what to say to his friend and comrade of nearly five years.

“Sir…” Bush began. Evidently he did not know what to say, either.  
“I want to thank you for your efforts—for everything,” said Hornblower. “I could not have hoped for a better lieutenant.”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
Hornblower smiled. “I’m not sure what we’ll do without you—but at least we know the prize is in safe hands.”  
“Thank you, sir.” Bush looked at the waiting boat and back at Hornblower. “We may meet in Sydney, sir.”  
“It’s possible,” said Hornblower. He did not expect they would. “But may I take this opportunity to wish you a safe and speedy voyage.”  
“Thank you, sir.”  
Hornblower winced at the sound of their words: ‘captain’, ‘sir’, ‘may I take this opportunity’. Why were he and Bush constrained to speak so formally, even as they said their farewells? He had asked himself the same question many times before—but only now did he grasp the answer: it was possible to have true friendship with few words; friendship without first names. He and Edward were friends long before Hornblower ever called him that, though he did not know it at the time; Martin, even on his death bead, had called his friend Bush.  
Hornblower knew he would never be as close to Bush as Martin had been, but that did not mean he had failed; that did not mean they were never close at all. Their eagerness to meet again proved their friendship and he hoped his next gesture would, too.  
Bush was watching him, evidently waiting for him to say good bye.  
“I should let you return to your ship,” said Hornblower. “But there is one more thing.”  
“Yes sir?”  
Hornblower reached into his pocket and produced a folded chart. He had been waiting for the right moment all evening.  
Bush opened it just far enough to recognise the south coast of New South Wales. It was the chart issued to all Pellew’s ships the night before they left Sydney. Bush was understandably puzzled at being presented with a chart identical to the one he already had.  
“I’ve annotated it,” Hornblower explained. “I’m sure it will be very helpful—”  
“That’s not quite what I had in mind.”  
Bush took the hint and unfolded the chart. This time he noticed the tidal lake where they had landed the troops, now labelled ‘Lake Martin’. “But sir, I thought…” Bush knew that, on the copy in his cabin, that lake was named ‘Lake Pellew’. “What about the admiral?”  
“As I recall, you discovered that lake—so I hope it is not presumptuous of  
me to propose a name. I discussed it with Admiral Pellew and he approved the choice. But of course, if you had something else in mind, I would be happy to recommend it.”

“No sir,” Bush whispered, his voice tight and frail. “I can’t think of a better name.”

cabin.

“You don’t approve,” Pellew said when Hornblower returned to the great

He blinked. “Not at all.” “You looked daggers—” “I was… surprised.”  
“It’s not what you expected, was it? Not what you would have done.” “Not exactly,” Hornblower confessed. It seemed to him that Pownoll had

done no more to distinguish himself than Captain Walton, who remained a commander—or, for that matter, Mr Bush. He could not deny that Pownoll had fought gallantly, but he had been ashore for the better part of three months and, while his work in Parramatta was no doubt useful, it qualified him more for civil service than post rank. He would not tell Edward that, however; he suspected he didn’t need to.  
“No,” said Pellew. “But you have not a father’s foolish heart. They’re our children and we must do what we can for them. I know he doesn’t merit it as you did, but I couldn’t send him away with nothing. I couldn’t let him think I preferred you. He is jealous of you, no matter what he says.”  
“I understand,” said Hornblower. He did understand, better perhaps than Pellew realised: Hornblower had no children, but he had his own favourites in men like Orrock and Bush. He wanted to do what he could for them. “What about Mr Bush?” he asked quietly.  
Pellew smiled, as though he had expected the question. “Mr Bush has command of a frigate.”  
“But he is still a lieutenant.”  
“And one of the very best. He’ll be a great loss to you, when he has his own ship.”  
“But not yet.” Hornblower was disappointed.  
“Mr Bush is an experienced officer but he has never commanded a cruise of any length. We may consider this his examination. Once he has passed it, I’ll do what I can for him, which may not be as much as I would like—we’re yet to see what their Lordships say about Pownoll.”  
“I don’t think they’ll deny you that.”  
“I hope not—there must be some advantages to all this!” Pellew waved one hand over his gold lace. “I don’t think we’ve done badly here, have we? Four prizes—that ought to lubricate their Lordships’ hands!” Pellew looked at Hornblower. “Four prizes, no treasure besides damned Frenchmen and a lot of mouldy bread, but not inconsiderable nonetheless. What are you going to do with your share of the prize-money?”  
Hornblower raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought.

“Come now, you’ll have a good quarter of a corvette at least. You can’t expect to lose it all at the card table!”  
“I could buy land here,” Hornblower countered. “Join the ranks of the gentry at last!”  
“That’s a little bleak!” Pellew chuckled. “No, Hornblower, I’ll have you out of here before too many harvests. There won’t be much else to do here, from now on.”

Pygmalion and the prizes sailed two days later. Pellew came on deck to watch. Hornblower could tell he was sad to see Pownoll go, but it was not in his nature to admit it. “Let’s hope he finds India,” he said when Hornblower joined him by the taffrail.  
Hornblower did not reply—Pellew did not expect him to—but he was confident the squadron would arrive safely: if Pownoll did not find India, he was sure Bush would.  
The bay was a wide bright sapphire, the sun hot on their backs and there was just enough of an easterly breeze for a square-rigged ship to weather Long Nose Point. Pellew and Hornblower watched until the last ship disappeared out of sight. Around them, the men went about their work, but it was not the sort of work to engage the attention of a captain or an admiral: after days of hammering and heaving and hauling, this morning the men had only their daily routine to attend to. Hyacinth’s repairs were all but complete. Her carpenter and his mates  
had gone ashore to work on Catone’s hull; besides regular reports and the  
occasional inspection, Pellew and his flag captain had little to do with the stricken corvette.  
“What do we do now?” Hornblower said quietly.  
“We wait,” said Pellew. Another minute drifted by, then a smile crept into his eyes. “And, while we wait, why not make the most of it?”  
Hornblower followed his gaze; he was looking at the white beach and the endless verdant shore.

The sea foamed warm over Hornblower’s feet as he wandered along the waterline, sometimes kicking up a spray, sometimes burying his toes in the cool quicksand. He had lived on this coast of golden beaches for nearly four months, yet he could not remember the last time he swam in the sea or walked on the sand barefoot. How pleasant it was to stroll along the shore without wet trousers and sodden boots!  
He and Pellew had come ashore—just the two of them—on the pretext of exercise. They had rowed themselves to a secluded stretch of sand, well-hidden from the ships at anchor and whiter than they had ever seen. The beach was even more beautiful than where they had pick-nicked in Port Jackson and the day more perfect, for there was not a hint of friction between them now. Hornblower looked up the beach, where Pellew stood, still shedding his clothes in the soft

sand. He was almost as pale as the dunes beneath his uniform but more slender than Hornblower thought of him as being—more slender than he seemed when they lay in a hammock together. Hornblower smiled; he fancied Edward looked like a Roman marble: Neptune, perhaps, or broad-shouldered Hercules.  
As he watched, the playful wavelets that lapped at his ankles rolled themselves up into a miniature breaker and rushed to knee-height. Hornblower laughed and threw his arms in the air as the sea licked parts of him yet untouched by water. But the sea was not cold. He turned and chased the receding wave, lurching after it with long strides.  
Hornblower waded out through the shallows that seemed warm then cool then warm again. He spread his hands on the glassy surface. Then, when he was waist-deep, he threw himself upon the sea and swam to where the water was deep and green.  
“Horatio!” Pellew laughed, splashing noisily in pursuit; Hornblower stopped and treaded water. Pellew was following more slowly as the water climbed up his chest and tickled his nipples, teasing them into hardness.  
“It’s hardly cold,” Hornblower called back.  
“No,” said Pellew, “but do I have to chase you all the way to New Zealand?” The waves were nearly at his chin now.  
Hornblower replied with a duck-dive, disappearing for several seconds before he reappeared, just a few feet from where Pellew was standing. He tossed his head to clear the wet hair from his eyes. “Don’t you want to chase me?”  
“Why—”  
But already Hornblower was off. Pellew followed him with strong quick strokes. The water was in his eyes, his hair was in his eyes, but he never lost sight of his quarry. Pellew was a good swimmer—little by little, he was gaining on his lover—but Hornblower did not intend to flee forever.  
They were a cable’s length now from where they had left the boat and far beyond where they could stand. When Hornblower saw, he turned back towards the beach and swam until his toes scraped a sand bar. There he waited, catching his breath, but when he felt Edward’s hand on his elbow, he laughed and took off again.  
“I’ll have you!” Pellew cried, paddling after him; Hornblower laughed and leapt just out of reach. Edward followed; Horatio ducked underwater and came up on the other side. For a while they splashed, thrashed, snatched at each other, but caught only handfuls of water. They were grown men—naval officers— playing like boys. But then the splashing stopped and they swam in slow circles.  
All around him was the glittering green sea, above him the perfect blue sky, but Pellew had eyes only for Hornblower, naked as Adam and lithe as a seal in the placid swell. White limbs waving, loose hair like weed in the water—why did sailors bother with mermaids when there were men such as this? “Horatio,” he said; then Horatio looked at him with his bright roast-chestnut eyes and became more beautiful still. The very sight of him sent a tremor through

Edward’s body. His breath came hard; he could barely move his arms or keep his head above water. He paddled backwards until he found the sand bar.  
Hornblower followed effortlessly, floating on the swell like he could fly. “What is it?” he said, a frown lining his damp brow.  
Pellew shook his head; he knew he was being a fool, but Horatio made him foolish. “Only, when I first loved you—when I first knew I loved you, and even after—never in all my witless fancies did I dream of this day.”  
Hornblower smiled lopsidedly. “It would be remarkably prescient of you, if you had.”  
Pellew shook his head again; sometimes he wished he could take Hornblower into his consciousness and share what he felt without having to use words. Love may have been the poet’s muse but his tongue was clumsy where his heart was full. I never would have thought, dreamed, dared to hope—all axioms that added nothing to what he couldn’t say. I adore you, I revere you, by God I want to ravish you and white the sea with our seed—mere glosses on the three words he’d said a thousand times already. No, he decided: better to do than to say—but he did not need to explain. Understanding passed across the undulating water and  
made the distance unbearable. That was what those three words meant: to share a body, a soul; to speak without words. “Swim to me,” he whispered. “Swim to me, Horatio.”  
A few kicks closed the distance between them. Hornblower alighted with his hands on Pellew’s shoulders, his legs stretched out behind. He seemed weightless, ethereal, but his palms were warm. Then he drew his knees up against his lover’s trunk—his arms around Edward, Edward’s around him—so their faces were mere inches apart.  
“My darling—oh my precious love.” Pellew spoke without volition; more foolish words inapt to convey what he felt. But then their lips met—soft, warm and deliciously salty—and Hornblower wrapped his legs around him and clung there like a second skin; like he wanted to become one. Yes, far better to do than to say—and their kisses said everything. Kisses like hieroglyphs, kisses like warm breath, kisses like sunshine on skin cool from the brisk sea, then one kiss so long and hot and deep that Pellew nearly stumbled and plunged them both into the surf. But he caught himself and held Hornblower higher, tighter, till he swore he could feel their hearts beating together—and not only their hearts. He was hard now, and so was Hornblower.  
“Horatio?” The legs around his waist had awakened a memory. “Yes?”  
“Do you remember—on the beach?” “Yes.”  
“Rather exquisite, was it not?”  
Hornblower blushed. “Except for the sand.”  
“Well, yes... Except for the sand.” Pellew’s voice was rough with pent-up lust. “But there’s no sand in the water.”

“No.”  
Pellew cupped his lover’s hard round buttocks. “No sand here.”  
“No,” Hornblower whispered—and by ‘no’ he emphatically meant ‘yes’.  
Bodies moved more easily underwater; wet skin slipped together. Buoyed by the sea and slicked with brine, it was a simple matter to hold Horatio and look into his eyes as he slid inside.  
That was heaven: to come together without discomfort or disquiet; without having to ask whether what they did was right because they both knew that it was. To come together because they belonged together. They were like the two halves of a clam, Pellew thought ecstatically. The idea was ridiculous— perhaps he was delirious—but he did not care; the swell washed over his ears and in his eyes, but he did not care. They were two halves of a clam and their love was a pearl between them. But Hornblower was more cautious. “What if somebody sees us?” he whispered, pacing his words between waves of pleasure.  
“There’s nobody here.”  
“But someone might come.” Horatio rocked back and forth, sending ripples over the water’s surface as he sent ripples up Edward’s spine. “Someone might see. It’s possible.”  
“Then tell them—God!” Pellew’s vision blackede; he clutched  
Hornblower’s rump as it clenched around him. “If anyone sees, tell them I’m drowning.”


	18. Chapter 18

It was mid-February but the summer showed no sign of ending and the days only seemed hotter as the weeks went by. The sweat ran down Hornblower’s back as he returned from his morning walk, thinking that what one called summer in England really was not summer at all. In the orchard, the gardener gathered peaches from the fragrant trees. In the rose garden, Captain Walton rested in his wicker chair while the governor’s little daughter ran circles around him. Walton had nearly died of infection but he was convalescing now and the sunshine brought back colour to his cheeks.  
There had scarcely been a day under ninety degrees in the past week, Hornblower reflected as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. At least, this morning, there was a breeze off the harbour. He looked at the water, glittering in the brilliant light—but what was that small ship moored at the government wharf? Not the Lady Nelson, not one of Pellew’s; it was Saint Sauveur, if he was not mistaken, with British colours at the mizzen. She must have come from India— with despatches, surely, and despatches more important than could be entrusted to a merchant carrier. Hornblower cursed himself for not seeing her come in and hastened up the hill to Government House.  
He found Pellew in his room with a daunting bundle of correspondence. Hornblower put one arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I saw the ship in the harbour.” He could not help grinning—one hundred to one that ship meant their recall—but Pellew seemed distracted. “Well, what news?”  
Pellew replied without looking up from the page. “Pownoll writes that they arrived safely and received a civil welcome from Admiral Troubridge at Madras. They will winter at Bombay and he expects that all four prizes will be purchased into the service. I should think we’ll profit handsomely.”  
“That is good news,” said Hornblower. “But Bombay?”  
“Owing to the monsoon—at any rate, it seems our enemy Admiral Linois has taken himself off to the Cape, leaving little prospect of action until next year.”  
“I see,” said Hornblower, but he could not feign interest in prize money or the French admiral’s plans. There was only one question on his mind and Edward, it seemed, was refusing to answer it.  
“The Marquess Cornwallis has died,” he went on, oblivious to Hornblower’s frustration or perhaps in spite of it. “He has been replaced by Sir

George Barlow—Pownoll writes that he dined with him at Madras and made the acquaintance of his daughter.”  
Pellew paused to catch Hornblower’s eye but Hornblower could only stare, wondering how he could possibly take any interest in Pownoll’s social engagements when the despatches that would determine their employment for the next few years—possibly the rest of their careers—were before him on the table. He supposed Edward meant that Miss Pitt had been forgotten in favour of Miss Barlow, but Hornblower had not the least interest in Pownoll’s amours and he wished Edward would not make a game of important matters. “But what about us?” he blurted. “What are we to do?”  
“We?” A sly smile spread across Pellew’s face, but he kept Hornblower  
waiting no longer. “We leave.” “For England?”  
“For India.”  
Hornblower gulped. That was the news he had expected yet it stunned him nonetheless. “When?” he said, almost breathless.  
“‘At the earliest convenience’, I believe was the turn of phrase—which is  
to say as soon as possible. But here, see for yourself.” Pellew handed Hornblower the letter, double-sealed on heavy paper, from Sir Evan Nepean at the Admiralty.  
Hornblower’s eyes hurried over the usual pleasantries to the critical words:  
In light of recent developments, we consider the Colony of New South Wales now adequately protected against Enemy Attack by its Remoteness and the construction of Batteries &c. which by now we understand you will have completed. You are therefore requested and required to proceed to India at the earliest convenience as Commander-in-Chief and there attend to the protection of our possessions and Trading Fleets. Admiral Sir Thos. Troubridge shall continue as Rear Admiral under you…  
“Commander-in-chief,” said Hornblower. “Of the whole East Indies!”  
Pellew nodded. “Quite a turn-about!” He was grinning; it was far better news than he had dared to hope for. “I’ll bet the snake could hardly bear to write it, burying it in the middle like that—but there it is, in Sir Evan’s own hand.”  
Hornblower read the letter again. “Troubridge would want to be civil.” Pellew was now unquestionably his commanding officer. “But…” Hornblower frowned. “But why? Why now?” The letter had been written before Pellew’s report could have reached England; before it had even been sent. Troubridge knew but the Admiralty could not have known, when they recalled him, that Pellew had captured four French ships in New South Wales. “Why the change of mind?” said Hornblower. “And what do they mean, ‘recent developments’?”  
“Not exactly forthcoming, are they? I expect they mean to torment me— it’s bad enough being six months behind the rest of the world without the Lords Commissioners playing Blind Man’s Buff! But fortunately I have friends as well as enemies.” Pellew took another letter from the sheaf on his desk and handed it to Hornblower. “From my brother—look at the postscript.”  
Hornblower read the last few lines, tacked on in a cramped hand:

P.S. No doubt you will know by now that Lord M. has resigned and will almost certainly be Impeached in the new year. Lord Barham has replaced him & so far has conducted himself sensibly. Yr friends here join me in hoping this will mean your Recall—we all celebrated when we heard the News—but hush-hush of course.  
“Melville’s gone,” said Hornblower.  
“Yes, but that’s not all. Read the rest of the letter.” Hornblower turned over the page:

My Dear Ned

Conqueror off Cadiz  
1 Sept. 1805

A Letter, I can hear you say, after so many months! Well, you must forgive me, for I have scarce had time to draw breath let alone write all the things that have kept me from writing. I know I owe you a full Account—but for now you must content yourself with these outlines:  
You have heard of B’s plan to invade England. Until May I was with Nelson on blockade. He hoped to lure them out of Toulon and inflict a Defeat at Sea, but they slipped us in a Storm and (next we heard) had sailed for the West Indies, though not before we searched half the Med.  
N did not hesitate to Give Chase but there was no French Fleet in P. of Spain and so we cross’d the Atlantic twice in as many Months. But Calder captured 2 Ships in July and we hear Villeneuve is much Dishearten’d—the invasion plan scuttled! He has abandon’d all hope of joining the fleet at Brest and the Combined Fleet entered Cadiz on 19 Aug. Cornwallis sent me & 19 sail to reinforce Collingwood and we all expect a Great Battle before the month is out. I have ev’ry confidence that Victory will join us (N is at Home, but all England clamouring for him!) Still it saddens me to think that my Brother who has done so much to keep our Enemies from home & hearth will not be here at the Fateful Hour to see the Enemy Fleet defeated and French sea-power crush’d. I enclose a copy of the Times, the latest to come into my hands…  
Hornblower looked up. “The combined fleet…” He was lost for words.  
Such a battle would change the course of the war—it could end the war. If Israel’s prediction was correct, France as a sea-power would have ceased to exist. That was difficult to take in; the alternative was unthinkable.  
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” said Pellew. He had faith in Nelson—he had faith in the British Navy, whoever held command—but it was hard for the man who had claimed the first prize to hear he had missed the end of the war.


End file.
